It’s afternoon and I look at digital equivalents of music, look
insane because my eyes are bagged and my hair is stringy
like an Aztec sun I can’t stop desiring women with children their eyes
forceful no, seriously forceful of course I’m afraid
of women I’m afraid of men too, the day thrown to pieces
symphonic goading a word—cognac tempering the air
a cognate lurking insidious a country in my skull
She is a sleeping thing warm like a machine or a broom
among brooms The world persists machinic I want you
to find its little blots its unclinical wefts, I want
to bed in the unknowing your fingers become I care about the movies
* * * * *
It is said the last woman who tattoos you is your wife
To be a self is to be a sudden cipher interpellated by faces
a tattoo that moves A man’s expensive shoes invade me
ballistic earrings quiver around the soft circle of a neck
this false peace a pantomime of not falling
I want to locate a no stillness this false peace
Topographies of rumor jutting in the streets
The one about the country without torture, torture so
plain it seeps into a garland of irises islands of nail
clippings caught in the leaves coincidences all
that matters that matter inebriated, tenebrous
We awed so much that tending to life put us to sleep
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