Traffic. Traffic and food. Money and language. And bowels.
It is all about waste, Poem says, gesturing
toward somewhere else.
Poem is a dangerous
retention. Cities without air. Something
needs to give.
The word ‘plum’ is about
where it’s from. Poem asks
a grocer, receives little or no information,
opens the next book.
A cleansing, Poem hears his friend say.
A cleansing, Poem thinks and forgets
his wallet, the store’s location, the shape
of arugula, why he can’t be far from
the truth or its proxy . . .
A cleansing, Poem remembers what he needed
and writes about syntax and
walks to give it to his friend.