no one will ask us to choose art or life — this is why we 
understand large absences — I use the glass in front of
the painting to check my lipstick — rules bend themselves  —
the reason why men carry rifles on public transport — and I
use calendars less and less — to know the day by not a box
but what springs up — outside the gallery the beggar
almost looked in conversation with the two bourgeois —
wanted a light but got pocketsfull of mutter — a museum 
is a cadaver of curious facts — but was he propped on crutch
or soldering iron — something lost in my spatial relations —
can I come without crying
 
 

that into the blurry — into the archetypal rest areas 
of survivor women — that all is deft collection — pardon
me but are you taking that for depression or for depression —
vox polis of the carpark — fucked up scarecrow on the sugar
high — into the homeopathic pathology of personahood —
the beggar banned the mirror from public — into the security
guard — thought to get ahead of me didn’t think I’d just 
keep going — someone’s notion of security drove her 
to get ahead — into the man disrobing — the public grooming —
on borrowed fuel
 
 

on the Proving Ground in the month of the knuckle — no sign
of a Good Woman nearby — wrapped around the third row of
bricks nothing for the tent of fools — what did I do with the $40
dollars you gave me when you were alive — when the dioxin work —
when the seeping into was the worker’s compensation — winded
beside the tracks — who’s stopping for the beggar in the orange hat —
20 signs and none will stop you — whose language drops from
bridges and boxcars — who became the choosers