Saturday, May 11, 2013


The cloud becalmed
of a single life exploding
two tuft bulbs on the head
descending the dashboard

patterns of existence emerged
from time-hatred, heroes surfaced
on the porch, rind in brick of boston
where they put their denture-flames
on the bony sheets flowing deep
out of the age-machine

its mouth a particularly tender number
its frame of a deeply submerged color
letting us move short hours in your bed
filming our heydey there, with straw fire intact
on the strung bodies of servants, somebody
bronzed half-dead from the shower
who said hello, frailed out luxuriatingly
on the butterfly stairs of a rich basement

you can become a wounding moth
against the lamp, this evening frameless

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