80.
A city is a sweetheart, the place of us
where angels make a bed of it
sultry metals
bending in your knee, from here it looks like
science couldn’t make desire decent
because there’s only us and no me
my head a tiny carnelian extraction
you hold close in you
and suddenly there’s everything to say
a place can only pretend for so long
not to be a city, a city not to be a bed
a bed the people in it long after anybody
there are only beasts
that travel across the silly tracks
flaunting their shadows
like obelisks like clocks
showing them like cities
like greasy monuments
until your stone begins to grow
your stone shoulders door shut behind you
to the sacred anyplace the empty secret.
No comments:
Post a Comment