Monday, January 26, 2009

letter to a murderer

Drifting is difficult because
directly into the face of winds which feel polar,
coming at me from out of the north
where blood is a rare compass.
Driving country roads I pull
onto the gravel shoulders the better to admire barns,
but it is the fallen barns that present themselves
most powerfully to me.
Some quality they possess
in their disintegrating marrow.

Perhaps they conduct themselves out of love. Or lack of love.
Where seas go forth
we know intermittently. As light is in that plasma
of unborder where night ends
and day blah blah blahs.
Crossing these off my list
an actual list scrawled in
the last blank page of some cheap novel
or elsewhere
in the mind existing in the form of a sub-cellular map.
You mean almost nothing to me
in that way that nightmares
about my mouth filling suddenly with broken teeth do.
Here is your palm of cinder.

Labels: , , , , , , , , ,


Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

<< Home