Wednesday, August 5, 2015

Made a Life of Letting


True love
keeps falling out of the bed. Every time I’ve scraped the vertebrae
to kiss it
it is gone


like a nightmare meeting
morning.


How do I allude to a morning that happened quite
specifically in my own left
eyeball:


I used to say years ago
we’d make the love that would
crack
me
like
ice


-but the past is nobody-
-the past is a landless bastard-
the past is not
landed
and is no land at all.


I have made a life of finding my own
darkness unexceptional
I have made a life of letting men


I have made a life of letting men
slump on my breast


You should be ashamed of yourself.
(Shame is like mold, it is the bastard of nature.)



As if I did not possess my own
humble cuneiform,


I am going to hold him in my mind
and cut his arms off arm
by arm:


I will hold him in my mind
until lovingly I push him off
the deck.


At the marina, cover your
lap with microfleece:
Put the seat back. Like a child.
The cypress sways, and the light will lower
from brutal to gold.


Listen to the old song, the one where the girl says,
if you were a shepherd I could love you.


I would like to forget how you fell out of my bed.
(If you were a shepherd I could love you.)


I would like to forget the morning on that indifferent
cliff. (If you were a shepherd I could

I would like to forget

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