from “Woman with Dust in Black Box”
you drift over enormous buildings and meander
into your office logon i.d. alien mardi gras’
and pre-cambrian love letters practice their singspeil
on rickety ladders until they fade into the clock
above the door. wrong time. whatever embarrasses
blackboards is truly yours, but they will make you tinker
with the inner workings of grammar you do not
possess by using, not buddhistical chalk dust, but
superhuman reflexes and angle rotations.
I like your photo and that poetic fragment.