By The Drawing Of The Circle Of The Stones

Noir leaving of the identity
in Cefalù or one of those Chilean towns
laid below the white volcano where I bathed
in the pale water of the restored morning. To step aside
out of the veil the shroud made by the movement
of the very leaving, the caliber of the desperation
and the pace of the sighthound, vertiginous
inside the river dream, deepwatered, the moneychangers
of the financial ghetto, withstood, not harbored
in the gathering of fatigued scenario, to finally leave
and to be left, to imbibe transformative breeze
in the echo of a high glass room meditated
by deep snow, a blur of fragments from the whole
in a brief chamber of blue silence, amandine
and the arcadia of wild grass nonscripta
the endives charred on the brick, to just go
in the regular coastal convertible, or citizen
jet escape to a lowered star, a burn of the ancient
of the day, the child of the double door, is it more
of a place than Vegas, is it less of an object
than whatever knife, cheap handled
back in Chile—a more adhesive outfit
or a combination of broken tango, a method
severed by glitch and equal generation
hand draws hand by hand, and its implication
a pointillist referendum through autostereogram
the audiobook read through morse code
and the beauty always returns to fire
which must be contained by the drawing of the circle of the stones.