Many answers locked my friends in tiny hells

Our hands are just the ground

My résumé looks like a tomb

My résumé will ignite its paper with white doves flaming out into a ribbon of vapor and ash

The sun will flash its future on the threads

Every future has corroded and all I have left is daylight floating through the house

I edit my résumé without touching the living

The future happens where the mind permits itself places to notice nothing in

The audience rises up from my résumé like birds who do not know they have been declared an illustration to a failing thought

When I stare into a rock, the air around it passes through my body as a current of electricity

The day is a house that keeps nothing but its job

The mind is a field we return to

The horse moving up over a hill

Flexed under dusk

Residue of bird song and daylight others slept in

There’s no such thing as intelligence

(The word for a job without a person)

Crowds wait in the rain the air rises through

The lens grinder puts down his work and heads to sleep

I sit down in my chair and read my résumé with my eyes closed

Words make me laugh

Come back around like birds begging in a tree