[the will hears not listening]

despite spirited attempts otherwise
longing’s in our bowels much as capital
par excellence ahem, there’s no sense in “saving face”
the explanation showed up this way
shot full of holes, so the object of worry
shall I use it as a fortress or a garden hose,
a conversation about one thing
on account of I’ve lost my accent presuming too much—
this minor chord in me lasts only a few hours
at best we look like first decade of the century

becoming a problem admitting self-denial making it holy,
on our left we have posing as desire
what I would want to mention correctly,
what most threatens surfacing semblance
is what too emits it—slow flooding—
so early a cause I don’t deny it
not for “pangs of conscience”
but that I should dodge my focus
photographing so you’ll smell like the great war,
that’s why we're all blurry.

[in mind Emerson, Sunday laundry, "Character and Motivation," Satsuma plum jam on wheat toast, for.]