Calculated Risk
                                 with Jesse Crockett


  I locate the centrifuge
  like a plant
  growing out from the inside
  on a street corner

  where you choose the light through a portal,
  pose for static shape, even if the door is unlocked
  and it was only the television, a distance out of bounds.

  They drive away
  towards their wanted minutes for the price of one
  that you cannot provide.
   
  The best things you find, however small,
      receipt for combination of tufts and nests.

  Perhaps we will become half dream,
  arrange collections and arrivals,
  pendants bearing our estimations

  by the window, contemplating
  the horizon experienced through the fields

  or by the road.  The half dream
  rains for memory through the shades
  drawn to contemplate

  the soil and the city,
  determined to find something else
  than what you will.






  Phosphor


  The separate paper, the ghost, this becomes anew.
  It never was so near that it could have us, drab

  recollection of reserve garments, of colors
  webbing for the things they want back

  as they had never been,
  to walk past the lost arts,

  afford themselves a worth in presence
  that they exist not then or unto the stars.