POETRY
“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then.
Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.
He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.
the man is stayed bent over the canvas
of my sofa. the man is me the man is him
self and I bring down the whip…
the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.
