Beautiful screengrabs propagate conflagrations,
where glass is the slowest liquid we know.
Late June sweat sweetens us, timorous among
these dark caul afternoons, turning us cold,

hinting that there’s something to us.
Maybe the sun won’t rise tomorrow;
maybe our books wil lavish into dust.
The vindictive fence propriety on West

Twenty-fourth street; their eyes are as
muddy as The Black River, slipping into lakes.
I caught television from buying anchors there,
and now I sign my name as a ratio