Sunday, May 16, 2010


they each, anchored in the steadfast death of organism,
in the grey stretch at the edge
of multicolored space. Our Milky Way
just a slight dash of motion
figure-skating in the reflection of your tear ducts,

plunge of lily-pad throat-stems
through the sky-floor of perfect pond

her lips on a huge screen above the swamps
emerge casting off cumulus
emerge with a tiny nape of neck
in their shrugging
in their plucking
strings beyond strings
lips all gravity-vast

eyes touched truly
with the salivary gaze of a misguided
saint, now
carved in hers to a prettier
guiding, the knifetongue

moving and never seen
seen and never moving
silken backs, the ears of sheep
leaves sliding under
our same hands,
by fanned bays disturbed

breeze under bridges
into stone by dying headlights
vast this canyon's

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