Micah Cavaleri


fragment 1

squeeze   William squeeze
the underlying soil and renew   Everything

via vices to hold steady guilt perched in my
There is no  steady relief there is no clean
There is no  exchange of soul
for soul leaving soul but purified, putrefaction
stays, and a sin is forgiven only by
forgetting the sin.





fragment 2

I am all relief
standing out against the air and a small
world of gravity pimpled all around me
, soft edges stretching under pulling pressure
from asia and gun-toting
Thank     for new verse and form
Thanks     for nothing in the fox hole, I ride
in an armored truck, a weight with much more
gravity and severe small universes on
the edges of its metal






fragment 3

from a needed relief of thinking and
knowing, like shouting to kill
a gut-wrenching worry without an object or
with an object too vast for a focus

they support you. please don't tell me your
story. I don't even have a story. Only bits
of fragments. Sitting on a turret outside
Cedar. Watching a crazy girl in purple rags
scolding dogs.








                                        as I read I see
the philosophy I read I grasp. The notes of drops of
water in the oceanic expanse next
to the notes on logical relations between me
at a time and snow drifts, the ladders of
language that set us, still in the world,
above the world to see it all at once, and the
note to be taken where you forget
speculation and push a cart in an aisle of
spices; none of these say simply, I am not a
soul. I am a soul. But it cannot be said.
       Finally, I am pulling the duck boat
back on shore in the cold morning.







                                                                    one line at any one
                                           time leads on from note to note, leaping
                                           over time, without concern for veiling or
                                           unveiling, given truths are just the way
                                           things are, neither celebrating nor sad or all
                                           these things, but always saying things. Air
                                           pressure humming is the equal to a series of
                                           words. An act of verse maps neatly to the
                                           earthy here. Meaning is not mapped
                                                   A crow dives between bare branches
                                           down behind the neighbor's house.







                                                                                      A stanza as the basic
                                           metaphysical unit is just as substance. The
                                           being walking, then sleeping, the writing
                                           into love is a series of grammatical
                                           groupings; so is the shape and weight of
                                           things as well as the swift quick kicks of
                                           feet or the dragging of shuffling shoes,
                                           making mass and extension, and movement
                                           and clothing fashions a means of making
                                           the universe.
                                                 Refutation of a stanza is almost
                                           logically useless, say like my paper house.
                                           The stanza is irrefutable.




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