A kitchen match could warm me here
in the gossip—
 
Here in what I’m covering my cuts for—
 
That an eel might not drift up
through the waters
& find your sleep a pleasing place to live.
 
For what’s alive set in motion an old thought
lost to a bowl of broth or to an armory at the wrist—
 
Dreaming loud, dreaming up in the undecidable airs—
& my matchbook folds its fruitfly crushed here,
down to the last two strikes.
 
Did you find the method you sought?
 
Did the ending originate you or
were you forcing the credits to
bring a stopper to the fore?
 
The shudder clicks its clicks.
 
The moon’s dropping its blanket to the puddles
of 1000 dogs here on the search for sleep
 
to carry them out, onto, over, through,
before, because, & across.