11/4/11
Water and spit and piss
Pour down the blue well.
The act of washing away and cleaning
Is sinful and profane.
Shameful.
My human hand runs
A bar of lavender mint
Long down my caving chest’s descent.
And your story rises with the steam,
Condenses on my brow
And sings to me.
You wrote him
But kept Love for yourself.
Some say the lonely lover
Calling out patiently,
But waiting, restlessly
Breaking and expanding,
Scattering and sparkling
Is the purest.
But we’ve been told:
This is not a poem.
This is a war.
A game!
Your soft wanting eyes
Are too great to hide.
Lead him around a circle
But you must never look behind.
Sight is your enemy
Armed with truths and lies.
You wrote him
And wept for his knees
Broken like wings
Shattered by their knocking
Weak from never kneeling.
Isn’t it always pure to love
Such a lively corpse
Always intricate and spinning
Then quiet after the gushing floods
Leave your dammed up throat
Flushing out feathers
From your caged nest?
Does it matter just when he will drift past you?
No, knowing
would not slow his skin from turning grey.
would not slow his skin from turning grey.
Below, the city looks timid.
The rivers seem grand
The highways thin like ribbon.
For a moment the world is still
And misty blue, preserved
As we dreamed it to be.
The farm fields form neat patterns
Like a museum diorama.
It is so quiet and perfect.
But no one is there.
