To Mary

your life, and life presented

make that claim

circumoral to the bad loop

charlatan in front

of us who charmingly delivers us,

you go, and finely

strain life out to the ants and to

the

rank subscription that amends.

by piecemeal

universal schtick your ankles

are still the same

ones you walk on, following a line, down

where

that claim is nothing like your life

or the same

world that does

lock instead

round everything that

still so patently,

for you,

obtains. you

know that, and come back round.

also,

at back of you, grass and they

spill the air rips

over you love

nothing less, nothing

that claim

does not subtend, or claiming even

locks out

shit, that happens, so

that loop slides piece

meal into

the grass, and the ants, and the rain,

the whole professional harmonic

on his fingertip

delivers

partly your life cannot but

still you appear,

clouds bank up outside

the window of you

but

you do. you turn round

your fantastic face,

and go, destroying object

-oriented ontology

and hype,

and you

miss 
the air reeling away.