I already fell for every word
on every fortune
every drawn number from God’s bingo wheel

                ferocious summoning
                lines and billiard tables
                with names of men in hiding
                scratched among scratches--

they were all anagrams,
slouching at a round table
wondering how long they’d been awaiting confusion

                                                               (and I fared no better against your saliva
                                                               with hushes crossing and settling over
                                                               every letter of your wettened spills and
                                                               strangers extending perforated fingers
                                                               through my liver overreaching their
                                                               handshakes without smiling a single word

we sprinkled mirror shavings across
                          reclining war zones grassy tar and
                 empty channels, holding chains
                     mistaken for piano keys and
            when I back into you we
               would say “I’m sorry and I do
               not remember your name”
                                    (“I’m sorry and I do not
                                              remember a name”)

Filaments flicker slow, yes they do in-
    debted desperation, hey if words
  are good enough to be untrusted
   then they deserve no better  than our

     utterly       blameless       disarray     )

   but I am thankful for your name,       anyway

February/May, 2014