Sound kept

The window Ana went out of was well above her own eye level which was in the end not really very  high.  

Description is a genre and so necessarily reductive. 

What feels important to know is that there are logistical concerns re: theories of death.  Carl’s sculptures were heavy. They dropped the eye down, these large man’s large forms.  What one should imagine is not the slab, but the way it unsettled the space. 

The gallery floor dropped suddenly away. 

Dust: a sheet of lacy, hand-made paper. 

I carry in me some images implied by a certain cartoon logic.  

That Ana may have bounced off the awning of the pizza place before spilling through the window  and into a diner across the narrow avenue, startling the night’s last tables.  

Whole enough to order coffee. The room loud with budgies, their flighted noise and color.  Impossible descriptions are made more gruesome in their optimistic attempt.  Up and then not. Up and then the frame is empty, leaving no movement.  

Outside of this poem the chickadees have started yelling about sandwiches again. 

CHEESE bur-ger. CHEESE bur-ger. 

There are either too many noises in an imagined space or there are too few.  

The neighbor boy with the good channels folded bees inside the petals of hollyhocks and dropped  them into pasta sauce jars.  

With no air holes or too few, they were separated from their buzz or really what it was is that we  were.  

A kind of trapped-breath operation; caught and sounding. 

Probably I loved him. His awful, hard name. A long board dropped in a room with no doors.