Friday, April 10, 2015


Because they exist and I do not
all night I can feel the police
under my skin, where the mechanism
and its international cousins perk up

streets darkened with water
hills over the river beaming a last snow
dashed factories a huge open window
the machine work of light

a face, a hand, an opening--

Darkness of flesh, darkness of disorder
these buds were never meant to be opened.
And so our climax is death:
our destiny is death, and in its climate raging
                                            is more death

Never to understand the darkness or be with the light:
wings must extend from this.

Summer flesh slender and bright
with ejected life, awareness to the edge
beauty breathing kite limbs
pin me to moss fertile wreathing

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