May 11, 2004

The heat is her &
it hurts me.

Pull-top
travelogue,

caught in this
black jade loop:

polar memory,
the shoals' air
lifting

off her sandal-blood &
the machete-
colored unsheathed
beach:

months made
of mealy apples,
mothman

helmets, dangling
pendulums
arraigning arcs for
self-prestidigitation.

I hid it in
my sleeve, scatter
ashes or salt

behind the hydraulic
equipment, the swollen
clownface
a plastic tongue

pulls you down
to the weak earth,
the weaker sky,
the weakest of
all my darling you
are paper-pulp,
you are a stickbug's

leg that breaks
in the goddamn
breeze.

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