Thursday, June 23, 2005


Another March arrives
You wake to the hydraulics
Of the 75 bus

A man you have scarcely
Met dies and you lose
Another indispensable compass

The fluorescent wanderings
Of your eye divorce
From the tolerant measure of his and we

Can’t escape the luggage language
Makes of our thought
Each nerve a courier wholly

Removed from the incalculable sequence
Of detours backwardly
Spelling out whatever finds

Itself wrung from moment’s lurch
There is no reasonableness
Fit, no grand arbiter of sense

To fix the tangle, no way
Of knowing what and who we need
Most alive, as today

My love’s eyes are like little
Animals opening
And closing in order

That I might survive, I feel
To live in them as a page
Must, want nothing

Of the lonesomeness of being
Closed and connected
Only by the taut physicality

Of spines, to shore again against
The smallness of the real
The horror of living forever

Interred within a reasonable universe
Because there is no
Impenetrable line, the months

Pass, dust gathers, a cut
On the bridge of the nose vanishes
And meaning slips in

And out of view, like stars
Surfacing on a night
Sky scalloped by cloud

Cover, your love’s shapely
Thighs tremble and detonate
An irresolution

That’s been terrifying
To bear intangibly for the past
Year or so, here

Are a few of the reasons
To continue: For Love, for The Immoral
Proposition, for All

That is Lovely in Men.

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