Monday, October 3, 2011


There is a wire strung here, so that we might know that we are not alone in being foolish.  A perimeter is a measure of loss, the manifest destiny of an obituary. How many years can I knot inside these walls?  The fear of loss is the harbinger of isolation.  We are where time stands still.  So many specters dangling from that coiled place, a wonder, a breath, stone belly crushed around an impossible stasis.  I would I were more than a nostalgic pleading, a rope caught between rocks.  When is it just—

There is a wire strung here, a cut masquerading as an object, a bombastic wound, a low sung loneliness.  In this cavernous mouth is the song you sing when everything is hollow, carved out, eternal, and it tastes good.  The clearing is where your mouth curls around word and tongue, a blood-deep steadiness that does not ask for an I am.  The what-ifs put me out of my mind; philosophy and desire tangled into an impossible grace that lifts the stone from my tongue and leaves a space for song.

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