Another Machine To Praise

I might lie to you.
The way wood rots, growing darker
like a coastal edge receding
over the earth’s curve.
At this desk boredom is a fire.
I might light a wooden dog on fire to praise your
Beauty which is illegal in the country
Of my brain-pan where dictators
Follow easily each other
Soft and large and prone to sweats.
One pretended he was blind.
I might lie again like a tongue
upon your various fractures.
And if I lie what then, what tools
do we need to save the carousel, the hammered lion,
to feed him with our hands.
I might wish to hold you before the trumpets
And later the skyline.
I might lie to you about a childhood
When I drank from a creek
Because I was far from home.
It was hot and I liked it that way.


***

Here is a revision, suggested to me by my friend Adam Tavel.

A NOTE RETRIEVED FROM THE DYING MAN'S THROAT-CAVE


I might lie to you the way
Wood lies, growing darker
Like a coastal edge receding
Over the earth’s curve.

At this desk boredom is a fire.
I might light a wooden dog on fire
To praise your Beauty which is illegal
In the country of my brain-pan
Where dictators follow easily each other
Soft and large and prone to sweat.

One pretended he was blind.
I might lie to you again, cleanly,
Or tongue the armor of a tank.
In either case, an incurious compass
That aligns the various fractures.

And if I lie to you, what then, what tools
Do we need to save the carousel,
The hammered lion, to feed him
With our hands. I might wish to hold
You before the trumpets
And later the skyline.
I might lie to you about a childhood
When I drank from a creek
Because I was far from home.