I have not vanished.
The street is brimming with my means. The sky is
Loaded with my reasoning. An ecclesiastical overseer
petitions God for my spirit, even though
we met just a single time, and still, after all that, he was
occupied with waving at an assemblage.
The ticking checks in Vermont influence
to and fro like clearing
up my eyes and my tattoos and my illustrations,
what's more, what comes up are the extraordinary passages
of residue, which additionally conveys bits
Of my reality. I have not vanished.
My significant other quivers inside a kiss.
My heartbeat was given to her on multiple occasions,
in numerous nations. The pieces of bread we plunge in olive oil are fellowship with our progenitors,
who have not vanished. Their sensitive tunes
I wear on my eyelids. Their grins have
given me an opportunity which is a hole
I continue falling in. At the point when I chomp into the two parts of an orange whose cross-area looks like my lungs,
a delta of juices burst down my jaw and, like enchantment,
causes me to appear to the individuals who think I've vanished. Its awful war makes individuals vanish like chess pieces, and that penitentiaries transform detainees into film endings. At the point when I blur
into the mountains on a woodland trail,
I despise everything that has not vanished, although its green façade transforms my arms and legs into oak parts.
It is then I have a place with a southerly wind,
which at this point you have mixed up as me gesturing back what's more, forward like a Hasid in supplication or a mother who has lost her child to gunfire in Detroit. I have not vanished.
In my kids, I see my protruding face; they are squeezing further into the riddles.
In a library in Tucson, on a plane above
Buenos Aires, on a field where close by consumes a controlled fire, I am held by a teacher,
a general, and a picture taker.
One consumes a finely wrapped stogie, at that point sniffs
the scented pages of my books, scouring
for the harsh smell of control.
I hold him in my psyche like a goblet.
I have not vanished. I wash the golden the tone of ale on my tongue and consider the penetrating rigs in the Bay of Gold country and all the oil-painted plovers.
At the point when we talk about cutoff points, we vanish.
In Jasper, TX, you can disappear on a portion of the rock.
I am a daily existence in the holy language.
Termites work over a grave,
furthermore, my brain is a gorge of previous days.
Initially from over the room, I wear
September all over,
which is interminable, and doesn't vanish regardless of whether you close your eyes unequivocally while like two caskets.