Grace
I am a limited body. I do
not encompass much, &
my ace-in-the-hole is how
& why I know this
(from
long experience of waves,
which have taken salty
thoughts from my
brains).
I know vastness, being
little.
I know defeat sans
groans.
Being pure is what saves.
Out at sea, unnumbered
uproars roll past my
ears,
like the Danny’s
bar-keep’s
innuendos like
thunder.
Cauterized
I can't feel a thing but pain.
I can't feel a thing but pain.
Everything I say's a blunder—
form and feeling gone insane—
heaps of snow inside my brain.
She's my loaded cherry pie.
I'm not worth her sliding doors
unless my eyes get cauterized
and moving sand's a wooden floor.
It's all been said except for this—
that I will out the road I missed,
form and feeling gone insane—
heaps of snow inside my brain.
She's my loaded cherry pie.
I'm not worth her sliding doors
unless my eyes get cauterized
and moving sand's a wooden floor.
It's all been said except for this—
that I will out the road I missed,
scattered signs, paraphernalia of
our last night’s pilgrimage past
the bucks hitting Bucktown’s tow-
away zone, down-bound baked goods.
Worn Yesterday
To circle you from inside you,
from inside glassy globes
of skin
offered up in mute scream
to
shared sharp pangs, how a
lock
might close shut in this,
how it
could clasp us to a
firmament,
how in arching up we
forge bliss,
down, & to be gone is
concupiscent,
& come is gone,
white-woven in —
what’s still unaccounted
for is
how when I leave this
place again
for Philly, I’ll look for
you on
myself at Worn Yesterday
again.
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