Apr 6, 2011


Quills on
the pronominal orchid—
what has not been said
of I? Phenomena
beget Them, all around,
in their hovels, eating
their food.  What once
was We scoured & sewn
with shards, Your boon,
the colors running off
the synthetic oriflamme
into sticky pools, enamel
clawed off the sun-painted
moon—work all of the day
& into the night, to know
its secret, Us, held low
in the dirt.  I am going there,
anyway, to do what You
should have done, We
can never recover, can
never go back to the sleeping
little streets or the corner
store totems, a standard
of flypaper to which I
am adhered & held above
like a snake head.

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