Clanking dialectic
makes it simple
in between
everything else occurs.
Real or not,
here it is.
The winds converge
It happens all at once
that means
there’s no start point
and nothing without
watching,
and unacted on. The effects
move backwards too
and at a distance.
It’s complicated. We
don’t need to touch
to touch.

The real is
black carrier bags in the branches
and dog shit inside them
and the greasy shapes
on the train windows,
where heads rested.
Mementos of earthly acts,
History, is what hangs around,
It’s all over the place.

The real
flares up
in the darkness,
the muggy black
our brains rattle in.
It’s what we are left with
in the morning.
The dream is gone
but there’s a flower which
wasn’t there before.
Sniff at the air,
that perfume
is
brand
new.