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Tuesday, April 24, 2018

Second Life

Let me go back. In Rome, a girl lets a wheel crush her foot. 
A thread of saffron caught her eye, bruised pulmonary clouds.
She watched its red crosshatching until her body flared with crosshatching.
She would live gimply.
The horse who drew the carriage over her foot would step into a pothole, 
twist like a candle, and one last time, breathe his velvet snout into a palm of chestnuts. 
Raising the gun, the rider would not look away.

The girl would grit around the blacksmith metals, a mold that
in keeping her upright made her quasi mandible. She would be a fruiter 
cleverer as a pitter. 
In the gloaming air, scarlet vexed the sky. She would she knew
refuse the ghazal it loomed in her, the threads twinning
closed the way the mouth announces our name. All she had: her famous
rhubarb pie, the stalk a menses stick in her hands. It is summer
and I need to leave us. The season unto which rhubarb thrives spreads into fall,
eventually back into itself.


Inches between inches. What compels me in these hours. Everyone is told
they have been here before, at some point in their lives. We know
at a glance to flirt with the ancients, plummet through mythology 
like the frauds we are. Stranger who tells me if I’m a poet my past life
has made me acute. Poets are the real fools, to still be curious, to suck
on the marigold to waste a careful yellow, the leitmotif of money
and our hunger. No. Poets have never been here. They are perhaps
between visits. And I want to be pure, no woodblocks for the eras lost
that didn’t keep me. I desire only foil, a shining that confirms
sex as only an angle of the sun. I put my plastic down, my cup and spoon.
Wayward and of no trouble. A lemon tree has grown for a century,

its fruit big as melons. Like nothing I have seen before.

1 comment:

Radish King said...

Incredible. I literally held my breath all the time at through my god. Thank you.