Spencer Dew



coming to some crooked

sense here in the end room,

a currency, a grammar, how

all this has proven essential as

sleep, needful as the hyphen of sun

across the parts above your heart,

a diagonal memory, bronze and

pulsing, while meanwhile the city

poses just beyond the glass and I limp

from plaster to splint, tasting

you in my mind, those moments always

already gone


For I have also walked around these past weeks thinking that this and this alone was real


What marks an interruption, or

how do we know what is what

versus what is the in-between?


one tattoo: a pendulum’s path

one tattoo: as map to directions

one tattoo: stars where stars are not

one tattoo: a palimpsest, my tongue

along your ribs and belly, down to

the numb bar of your Cesarean scar


And so far beyond that at this point, impossibly far, so that this, that you, are all I think about


remaindered here in

the end room, with the skyline

like a logo on a label, hobbling

around these dwarf maquettes, failing to

reign anything back despite monumental

consequences or in spite of, thinking how

fracture can be constructive work, bones

set in time, though the alignment



 About the Writer
Split Lip Press

Spencer Dew is the author of several books, including the novel Here is How it Happens and a study of Kathy Acker's work, Learning for Revolution.  He is also a professor of religious studies.