The name is more directing towards consideration than the thing that almost forms a meaning:

She used my head like a revolver.
We crushed shine into the listeners.
Before the lights went out, I lit my
consciousness with matchsticks on
the sidewalk. I wanted to enter around
a parking lot—late for the concert after all
the refilled glasses and headlines and wars.
I was ready for earaches but they
would not believe the things we did for them
were in the name of anything but a salty
choice to prepare them slowly like parchment
in the sun. Because I loved her, their scratch
has never resigned in me. I depend so on
the hollow darkness that lets me see her face.

the time allows elaboration and to assimilate is pain : the time allows to play down and to re-formulate:

rhyme now how song’s exaction
Is your distraction—related is equated,
How else is love’s distance approximated.
—Louis Zukofsky

The time helps us forget headlines outside
this known form. I am speaking of nothing
but a one-two-three-four and uh-one-and-
uh-two-and-uh-three-and-uh-four beat. We
meet. The time that to takes turning there
is always going down. And there
are things I am not going to forget:
you stopped operating
amplifiers just to kiss my
neck. I bit you back. A crowd full of kids
spilled gin on the dance floor, threw their fists
up into darkness. We stayed backstage:
bodies pressed into bodies just like how
we all first meet as idea, as noise.

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