Eventing it, I see many fine things that are not true.

& with that I like it as a site for convergence. Fear

that "it" all, like when a button is pressed, would start filling

the room with movements & sounds. Living it. Kinging 

it that I might drag it out. Yoked tears flow both

for it & for this unhappy IKEA shelf. Preparing it. This liver I will

fain fasten, devouring it. According it. Rosy-fingering it.

What succeeds where the poet fails. I don’t have a monopoly

on it. I lift my hair, and there it is, the last servicio. 

Dragging it. Mentioning it. Fanning it with a thick moustache,

 “I’m just – I can’t do it, I’m sorry,  I’d like to, but I  

can’t it’s not up to me.” I give it the best years of my life.

& all I get is this lousy T-shirt.  Daily nostrum.    

Cunning it. Biopoliticing it.  Cutting it. Squeezing it. Being it.

O my like, O my like, I'm too hurt to be clear   concise

& fair. When it believes to be free, I light a stinky bean & go home.