July 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011
There is the morning, there is the lightening sky
donning a semblance of dependability—
like listening for a wavelength of someone’s voice
where syllogisms present truths
like a dream of nourishment
someone might offer you with his hands,
or the poignancy of disembodied but intact organs,
(a doe’s complete heart)—
if autumn wind: infatuation,
if hounds: a kill to be made,
if deer: deer meat until autumn is a memory
like the pin you stuck into your arm,
and the bead of blood,
when you were young enough to starve
as if no one had ever done what you were doing;
it didn’t even have a name.
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July 01, 2011