EXHIBIT
Picture the ten-day clouds
Very freckled, intoning
Looking after the vanguard
The icon of the fist, aloft
there’s a long smear there
a solace leak
we’re trying it glossy
going all retrospective
kept dreaming the deadbolt
crying myself serene
salt room ringing with ions
ready or not, either
it’s a spectacle, a liver-fist
an approaching pharynx
they all originate there
the milkiest propagation
with the mature volcanoes
croaking out another genesis
feeling texts of this mineral world
lava the narrow, hurt theater
the long declining structure—
A hardcore feed of beauty
of the swaths, hollower
predicting our ground
back on the sequencer
who of us is willing, explicable
juicy with theory
speeding off into the late ecstatic
emmi Greer 