from “Jaywalking the Is”

So a song turns the nearness sour & I’m either looking at that tree outside or staring at the wall. Neither helps me with the science in my colored fear, since trying to add either wing to a sailing vessel won’t stop the water from leaking. What’s a placid form of abstract eroticism anyway? I could look at pictures & wonder if the window’s a savior inside a still conception, wonder if I was never good at painting because my hands were more cloyingly immobile than my heart. If you leave out the backdoor, make sure to run down the anvil. More specifics? How ’bout how heavy this hammer is?