In the new music
I’ve discovered nudity.
You don’t have to sing
Or spell it out
So much as see
The difference between
The air and the air,
Money, chlorophyll and fear,
A phrase cut with
The nakedness that waking is.
No longer invested
In a poetry of what waking is,
I lace my sentences with sleep.
No poem sings beneath
This sly beat.
The bomb detonates
On a Chelsea street,
And your bed is animated
By its laughter
As Saturday enters
A premidnight stage.
I can’t commit
This sound to the page.
