the poem’s warm soul awaits your
ax, and its cut is cut from the forgotten
ribbon, the blight that soared in at half
past when, the riddle to cure the hunch
and bare the knuckle that sheathes the
curve that moves the curtain of a timid night.
There is a poem stuck in midthroatwhere pillageofnight Dwells it is here that the ... The defanged poet is the limitless unbite We could pit an Inkpot of stain Versus context clamoring ...
The poetics of skin is
the fecund saying of
Yes; the laughable saying
more; the immutable
Want and the desecration
of dust as it mixes
With sweat; the sweet
Musk of the tall whispers
Masking a small anxiety.
This poem rasps an aspiration balks at the tawny mold speaks night when what is true is not near at hand this poem is the antithesis of a humble dawn but breaks no bone no bone at/ all - we climb clamor call we call what is beneath the calm at sundown you shake down syllables what is beneath the calm at full moon you remember the one from yesterday the same the blood of the same the calm of the blood as it thawed call what is beneath the calm speaks night when what is true is not near - the hub of becoming stalls the broom of what is at hand is at hand and now