Thursday, November 14, 2013


Young woman, I fear the grief of old men
as it enters my being without a shout,
I find the core of where old selves clamor with chisels
and you are a lightning's root in the overbecoming ephemera,
you slant the landscape with eyes, with footsteps under your footsteps
smoldering, you hoist me with gravity from my ceiling bed,
I withhold only what cannot break loose from the wall groaning calendar

Young woman, I never ascended like a prophet to paralysis
because we are living matter, undirected by words to be shaken,
let this hymnless abandon light up the vaulted cobweb
blueprinted into life by those dying, who pretend eternity,
take my carcass of moss, vibrating with song, to your lip's crux
one final perseverating time, be my salve's looping station,
repeat and repeat me, you are the hourglass emptied of atlas


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