Saturday, January 30, 2010

THE LIGHT

Plastic bag
cat hisses
from the bough
of a dogwood
as sun pisses through
a few stubborn leaves
some drown in backyard canals
some words appear to splash
but this little light of mine
it burns past two uninhabitable planets
before it ever burns me
curb littered with lipsticked butts
I thought everyone quit
maybe they quit quitting
maybe blue newspaper
skin splitting so
a wind
of recovery
can blow in
like strange hair
patterns in the mirror
maybe genetic maybe earned
I took apart the light
by slowly threading my wrist
like a reel of pale film
through its old yolk-mouthed distemper
making my hair feel cumbersome
maybe the skull is expanding
like a mollusk that
desires new ocean digs
maybe the light
was never heavier
than today
blue jay
on dogwood
eviscerated by it
my veins accelerating
from frame to frame

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