Brandon Downing, p.4


This is meant to mark the year’s courtesy to us. She
got here again, mask through the dark. Clear sister. Yes.
Not a fighting someone today, with preludes, but ragged,
but a window & comrade, emergent ground. New sister!

At a hazel house, house crowded and down, the deaf play.
My sister picks her flowers, both clicking and featuring.
The day is recited. And we receive it. Night—is recalcitrant.
Trying to know her. My throat is a chamber of vitamins!

My dream it opens up like a car, dumped into the slopes.
When I am being and singing! My sister and the porch,
not shuZing in the dark. Being counted. Tickling, & fear.
I associate her with specific lights. I am late for the restaurant.

My dreams opens like a car, in empty wings. My sister—
I have only just stood there in the earth. But I am fashioned
Into my neighbor’s lamp. I have this indigenous love,
like a stammer upon a lake, & I cannot speak either.

And how the city wraps round—it is ringing so loud.
My back can break terrible houses of peaceful stone.
My sister falls from my person, and all is gaunt.
We are so excited, everything is fast, we get so killed.

My sister—you will make an incredible sound.
I gather you and the house, and all is circular.
I run from my ninth to my thirtieth year,
From soundstage to this climate, to the bakery of death!