Tuesday, June 25, 2013


It's a wind mask,
a high silvery sky-thread,
that I am cut to be climbing.
In the winnowing of my foggy flesh
a man is forming underwater.
Yearns for you
to be present onshore,
carries the peaks
of the dying in his look,

you and I will meet again
and again: throughout all time
we will never abandon each other.
Sweet implacable face,
grave playful countenance,
bring the set of your bones
to the uppermost layers of the earth,
taste lavender there, the dementia of history
gone market-dry in your eyes, breasts
blazing with oil, laughter far and wide
at the brazen territories forever fading.

Reaching for a rainglass lit
hands already united on the table's middle
galaxies wrenched open in the background,
belly of Jupiter, the bar patio, the disappearing river.
In you the doves beat both upward and downward.

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