sidbranca

for A.B. I keep swearing that when I get home they will be there, the two boys I lost this winter one hovering now in the snow above his mother's house one with his feet just above the ground (death and success are not the same, but both are difficult to watch) the city I left does not exist without your drunk steering wheel without your red broom handle the short walk from my house to yours has burned to the ground I was at home, I did not call because I thought this dead man would not kiss me There is a hole in the shape of an owl in my telephone, in my right arm. Here there is no tower for me to howl under.

Sid Branca Cook Troop In a pit of plastic frogs in paris I fell, hobbled, on allée andré breton the poets rushed forward, mais non, I winced, je marche I gnash my teeth, Roberto, your thin legs at which I spent so many hours --in what language does there lie a yellow bow to pull my cramping limbs together? there were grey crossbeams, rain there was soft, wet, red I'm tired, she said un peu fatiguée the modern, a mantis has staked me I examine the flag, standing my black fingernail flukes across the scape.   - Paris, February 2008