Sean Zhuraw


Eastern State Penitentiary

I’m getting better at leaving the room
with it cleaved through two one-way sky-
light panes. With it water clings to wrist, is made
held with extinguish what to it reflects from
Gold, a pillar west-split home’s river,
a fire knifed through itself meaning
I contain. Without reading rain I think rain,
an animate terror
to return greener walls’ exhaust
To eye pallets. We divinely lie. I lie. I am not the water upon my wrist nor the focus
of my clinging to it; sorry. Whatever
to I am added is an armchair, and please chair
the flick of the fear
Switch on and
on my walls fall
My walls and if we can corner what you are
Afraid of we can label it. When was this
to you conversation, infant
split away, composure, a cancel, a mix
Of mine eyes
Through certain so-so refulgent direction,
and the unpresence brings an unpresence
of blankets, a self-narrowing outside
Blue dictates. What’s your name like you mean it? Don’t presume
a lark of it. Don’t think of spending
it but as already
In hand, traded for a follow, or a loop of lost tempo due to shortage of it,
Time, a system of movements reminding of gotten hot
water, disinfectant, iodine, pleased lights. Maybe you
Should send me your catalogue. A snap of water all the graphic
blandishment one can outlook
from the unowned split
Ceiling offering one drop, one increasing without existing
Knowledge that never carries the surroundings I control
for: example: from the centerset:
if I point to my right
if I from my gesture a revolver settle
if I make a slashing motion across all
my throat, sense left and more
spotlight and furthermore see
Hall-dark perforate the equational room. I saw you holding that watching
face that read aware
like. If you are unable to delight
In containment, delight in the sound it makes. You didn’t answer right
away, humdrum. We admit no purity into our city.
We hear retrieveless doubles as the water
falls near to share thoughts, determine
what floods what we place here.
Because I am speaking to you
That which does not at
The poles hand water’s inflection. He stands
rigidly at the division. Watching eyes
closed. Lapses of day screen.
He stands in bed. It, I see.
Water again on the monitor’s membrane.
Must there be a holiday to emphasize it?


The Living Removed

Think of the conduction, a river
revolving in the room returned

to I that made of me feel

unearthing no distance enough

from creation. I decompose a cylinder of wax.
I hide in hung air it— I, will the kept

cold ward the mouth locked
its half up through, though what if with

all he she and it pleases
the third from love, the flicker the knock

back the destruct I plied the room I

into it didn’t fit the room
the day it offered its severance

in its own company. Of itself it fears

from the root, substance
from first motion. I with my captor am to begin to

identify with him. Hands so much
like the river —meticulous twitching

of surface singulus, contra infixation
as in a pattern, as in I think those are steps—

his river in two

directions, rung—each of the between
sides I feel the first vibrations of

much like smoke palms its limits—
As, who I, to measure repeats

forward space— creation of the
container from continuous rush

to evenness, impress of wash, future

embarrassment, abed with my dead sliding
and jargoned mortise— that is to filter

where flecked light keeps coming
to approach oneself, is to deploy

daft statement after construction
the trim of construct I after all

had imagined it, here, the whole of meet

where I had left it—blood in what is now

a tempest room— indefinite alter an alter, the film
of water joins my pathed forehead

not to entrance but to call, the lowered,

same case, the current the cut of set again.