Deed 

 

 

 

Blood stirring like a pupa in the tip of the trigger

finger—alighting from the branches that weave the nets of

sleep—Each new day begins another

aftermath—supplants in fresh cold the restive

ancient harbingers—those teal-fledged birds lithe willows scents

which pen in air bleeding outlines of vegetable hunger—and

the musk smell of what is locked-in

paralyzes, hushes its children, rapes them so they stay

in the keep of flesh which knows no healthful story—and what owns

the silos of grain will rust, will curdle from the heat of too many

bodies’ quick gaits through open air—should I wait

my turn to liquefy into sick bluish mud or should I remain

clipped to secret greenery, staid in the latticework

of eyes I choose not to meet—and

the swirling roads of ember etched in my palms, clenching

prostrate when the dogwood I own lets its spindly progeny

squeeze its shins and groins—It is my glance’s

turn to quicken the danger of

handing heat over—look—it laves

its loose breasts over everything, yet nothing

drinks more than its fill—the body 

 

saves milky records of sickness so it can distinguish

the rancid cloak of love when it nudges

its roofs—when it regains

the cancerous light that clothes

and owns the hollows one cannot

decant…. Tell me silence will not always have a taste.

Tell me the hairy halite bedclothes that chew

one’s skin never chip their teeth. Tell me I will never learn to

punish. Meanwhile I learn to identify

which season sickness sleeps in. Nothing redeemable

ever screams. It cannot be smoked out of the shrubs that

line every eye. So do not embroider

a face distinct from any other.

Do not. You will never grow

exempt—

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lupercalia

 

 

 

Several scarecrows know of

the pact I made with the elements.

In a field of purple wheat they flounder.

Disheveling the solid air of

a love act is all that we can do. I made it that

you fell into a field of corn. I made it that

the lone sapling was caught and bound.

Its amber hands, skinless extending upward rustling,

candelabras festooned with green waxy fingernails.

My wind is not ammunition though.

It displaces nothing memorable there can be no delay.

The fires are still tortured till their laughter coats humans.

I made it that there are many winters, like

the tickings of clocks which one learns to excuse.

The raining down of cold razors is

part of my persuasion. You must borrow a

nailful of frost to rust your joints so they

do not ash before the music starts. All good life

I gave as though I were suet flecked with gems.

The crowd is slaked for now:

a painted man wears a crown and dances in

the streets with a rusty padlock on his lung.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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