A N N E X     P R E S S     2 0 1 5


While I sketch out extra decades
I’ll never need you read this page

of missing words each time you drive
the perfect circle of my cage.

Rattle your chain! Upend my tomb!
All my components blaze upon

the curve of God’s cryptography
I believe I’ll dust my broom.


Every time I look back stage
history takes me back a page

where paralyzed constants await
revisions that will not arrive.

Polynomials rise & fall
so fast you’re scared to teach

one thing not to want a dozen
of the other. On the day you

return your last advanced decree
I believe I’ll dust my broom.


I play to win. I want to hear
& instantly to care unless

(postponing our collapse) we meet
tomorrow at the corner where

to fold the world inside my past
I believe I’ll dust my broom.


My interest mounts then halts my pen
before the paper’s ruined again.

I'll need some time to take back all
the lies that I’m done telling. Dogs

can play me; subtle human craft
works well too. Yet no replacement

ever proves a needle for my
groove. When cat & dog use

cod & tag to sketch out all-new standards
I believe I’ll dust my broom.


Missing at a moment’s notice
I’m ready to get startled on

a scale of one to ten from none
to when the middle man must breach

our walls to put the pressure on.
The dish ran away with the spoon.

I’ll always remember that tune.
I believe I’ll dust my broom.


A margin that might tilt this plain
rend my chain or track the laps I

swim to relax has elapsed past human
scale. It’s the original of you I

want in my zoo. To reach my room
outside the wire you climb through gloom

you do not tire. Back in the womb
I believe I’ll dust my broom.


On our trip back to the border
I pointed out a troubled sieve

you’d woven on the loom we left
behind our first time through.
Even a chain of stars that go
BOOM! someone’s chosen to discard.

I have in mind to bet the farm
but not on that, nor buy it for

that either. Though I am not sure
I believe I’ll dust my broom.


Once upon a time an algorithm
deep in the woods began to crawl

the intellectual property that flourished
unimplemented on the forest floor

until at last it grew to be
your signature. With much to tell

before time fell, night passed quickly
then didn’t pass at all. Your patents all

are painted out; I’m done with you.
I believe I’ll dust my broom.


As if conversing with my thoughts
some feebler or more strenuous

other by magic would arise
I for whom to live is to think

don’t furnish my soul but shape it.
They say it’s one thing to be lost
to vanish another: the rarities
I begged for once are useless now
my banished vocation has been revived.
I believe I’ll dust my broom.