Rae Armantrout

Disown

You may “have” sex—
 
but those round  
sink—holes beneath  
the off—ramps,
 
scabbed with whatever  
flat, green stuff—
 
not in your most  
nominative  
moon—walk.
 
                             *
 
New one called  
“Convoy Village.”
 
Bylaws forbid  
visible contrivance:
 
clotheslines
(like the skeleton)
 
or crabgrass
dead in long tracks  
tipped with green.
 
Results shall be  
unreminiscent.
 
                             *
 
To punch one’s straw  
definitely
 
into the fizz.
 
Arms of pastries  
revolve
in their clear cylinder
 
slowly.
 
Space “may be shaped  
like a saddle,”  
scientists say.
 
A list may pantomime  
focus.
 
On conditions  
so numerous  
nothing can begin.
 
                             *
 
“Run down,” they say,  
“buildings.”
 
Wave of morning glory  
leaves about to break  
over the dropped plastic  
bat, the empty shed.
 
Hard to specify  
further.
 
Whole body  
dotted
 
here and there
 
Areas of interest,
 
                           cross purposes,
 
                                                   eddies
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