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Thursday, April 12, 2018

Nightbooks


You use your toes for balance and your fingers for massage.
Your body is French but your mind is Scandinavian.
Flanged among steppenwolves whose alien boundaries
Are simply factual, without judgment, without sensation,
Just the silence of uncooked steak slowly hemorrhaging,
Dead of happiness contemplated so long you forgot what it meant,
Already rotten, or fit only for other creatures’ consumption,
Poetry weather is Brigadoon-ish. A rainy voice blows in a body
And leaves behind questions that if asked would offend
Persons more deserving of kindness than carefulness.
Can you be honest, or can you be quiet? If fingers are no good
You use your nails and slip them along the backsides of your teeth
To touch the dark spots that aren’t supposed to be there.
What you can’t feel ceases to matter. Shepherds without sheep,
Artists painting blank canvases with dry brushes, exiting
No one remembers they’re not still near. Do you remember?
If you had more thoughts to think, you might invent less words,
Gear noise, and if all that was left of you was a bicycle
Could you intuit in its geometries shapes your body made?
A tiny moon grazes your palm held level on the table between us
Like a promise. Where it stops you pick it up and hug so tightly
You can’t tell which is the parent and which is the child.
If you listened long enough, would you know your gut’s language?
Tea and coffee are better where the water is worse.

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