Derek Henderson
and Derek Pollard


Vine Street yellowing across. What it is cracks in the street.
Arched windows blackening.
Fan sound abandoned.

Time kisses its own back.

Vine Street greening over.
Old Hannah, what is left, the bottle.
How green, brushed by lacquered sunlight.
The horizon is left for a table.

There was a sense of lost nostalgia,
A stutter is 1:38 a.m. The bottle remembers backward, isolating
another part of itself. Every part parting from
the kissed. The kissed who is these people. The remnant of a kiss
wonders about these questions. Dawn paling this poem.

A glance over the writing in the other room. Out in the street, midnight,
sprung into


it, spilled in little tips of water.
Night slips backward and noon burning at the end of the bottle.
It limns the broken edge. The lip moving, glassed in. What
there was of found cushions. There, tries to stop on Vine Street. A new bottle
reads: I; meanwhile I am turning to disappear. The kissed—the movement across the poem?
The pressure is the cemetery gates. The shoulder left for the baby, morning.


What it is stuck in itself. On the arch of Noon is the edge. what is yet to become
was a tremble of the lips. A stutter heated. The clock begins to walk seven times around the earth. Time kissed those who make of it this. The weight asks the gristle of these words. We nuzzle green glass.


Left in the light—full of the back, slowly across There, the ones who were left over. That, as simmer, touches this poem. The exquisite line of your lips—breaks open this poem. Nothing else begins to lighten—


through the window—
into flowers that would condemn—was stuttering. A King, making of, which are the bottle close.


A rug, in the places that had stuttered.
Before I lost something more than mere words.
This poem making of nothing else, the horizon.


Woven into the fabric was, in places, that which had to walk each other.
Lost, the weight, was


the places left behind—read: could die. this poem as if there


And "was", and "and", and "enough"—she—and nothing more than she—as us, to do.



"I find it fascinating how language can open up and simultaneously shut down on itself—I see that happening in this poem, without any direct interference from the authors.  I suppose we owe a post hoc debt of gratitude to Ted Berrigan."