Wednesday, May 22, 2013


I open a black-lit flower
let a mite-sized bird
furrow the time-slowed air between us
up to your forehead and its precious appearance of forehead
up to the underside of uneaten leaves
their desire the stems cling the tips of the branches
you are tired of being observed by language
I am tired of speaking

River pounds shallow and wide
billows deep in places
has carried the corpse and the delights of the unwounded
and healed a broken dancer with cold slime
on a series of rocks
our fire's caught plastic
we run to the brick house
under a derision of geese
where a feeling that's never withstood
waits a safe distance
and the corners are barren with mattresses

Once a blacksmith, once a silk man
moved these rudders and melted
once a pantheress, once a queen of rooks
took an unready moon
through potatoes and leeks
to the bottom of tubes and fuses
and beyond the vast mantle
where a doll waits, in a goblet
I wheel through a daydream of girders

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