I took a real good look at the whole station/But I couldn’t find a trace of the massacre(1933)—Semezdin Mehmedinovic

That he is an I. Lyrical in the sensitization. Not quite a lamination, but a murmur. His cheekpiece leans against windrows’ chill as trainloads cross America. He holds these moments in a sad imbroglio, as if everything has already fallen, shards of the fragile workbench reverently lifted up. An émigré lives nowhere (he has no doorknob) and everywhere; seeping into crackerjacks, haunting the gapping in our Great Emunctory. This vastness and the simultaneous smart arm that holds all and holds nothing in the extravagance of its metallic body bag. No easting occurs. Everywhere is glasshouse. Vanishing pointsman. Never a homecomer, here, eventual for us.