a round animal, nameless.
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If you are still alive when you read this,
under their lids, growing black.
Our love has chosen its appropriate gesture
It didn’t choose seems almost insignificant.The gesture our love has chosen is appropriateWe both agree not that we have any choice butAmidst all those others does seem insignificant.Is it incumbent on us thus to therefore obliterateAll of the gestures except this insignificant oneChosen by our love for its own no doubt reasons.It is up to…
Poetry,
a magic, field–like the spacebetween a sleepwalker’s outheld arms!
I’m tired of murdering children.
now I feel Vietnam the placewhere rigor mortis is beginning to set-in upon me.I force silence down the throats of mutes,down the throats of mating-cries of animals who know they are extinct.The chameleon’s death-soliloquy is your voice’s pulse;your scorched forehead a constellation’s suicide-note.A phonograph needle plunges through long black hair,and stone drips slowly into our…
-to S.
only your waking could make it whole;resuming its costume of day, its rolewhich seems to overnight get ragged—Fate latent as weights in theatercurtainhems, what soul is sewn hereto be rung down at last, divestedof these disguises. But if we arebared by such cloth as cries in thislament for the sun’s fragility,would I dare now to…