A painting of wordless paintings, a bedside of cannotsay more, milk in its simplicity, a motif for some time,a childhood of wordplay, a fascination with shading,an interest in waste, an apprehension of almostbeautiful, a flaw washing over, a change in the clouds,a wheatfield of hearts falling, a landscape of decline,a backdrop of anonymity, an I of “high” and “low,”a puddle of noise and scream, a precise corrosionof perhaps, a tongue in a skeletal car, a rhetoricof randomly placed saliva, demands of fluidspeak,a softening of focus, a ruination of old blueeyes, a reality of no apparent scale, a sprawlingof no “here” here, an escape route that isfrozen forever, a phenomenon of sharing a bed,a theme, an eagerness, a lack of humble jokes,a however of things, a hope for gorgeous insults,an arrival of sky-like hues, a renewal of everyday life,an exhaustion of snow-capped summits, a neuroticanxiety in flames, a coincidence of seeminglyon fire, a human talk in rare luck, a study groupabout a satellite or minor god, a strategy of diffusion,a fiction of nocturnal metaphors, a history of nosleep, a remark of the twilight sky, an insect in split-second descent, a profession of making signsthen abstracting them, an advanced study of onecarrot, a shape without having to force,a county of lies, a church in the most literal sense,a mouth of austere usual grace, a reference toblandness, a murder with stroke-less fragments.

¹ The title of the poem is an anagram of Ed Ruscha. The poem adapts language from Ed Ruscha: Fifty Years of Painting (2009), Hayward Publishing, Southbank Centre.