Vanishing Bodies

Each small step a cudgel. Bludgeoned,battered, and bashed with the slight jingling

of a key, the putting on of a shoe,the switching on of a light, the zipping

of a jacket, the casting of a certain gaze.The trigger is the motion. The channel

is the movement where the mindgoes limp. The muscles rope the space

and the heart-flesh beats outtheir quiet menace, infusing

the days, the hours, the slowminutes. It doesn’t matter

where I turn, it’s the turning.