Your truth, invisible;
I am obligated to contain
the nature of fire,
rebellion established
within a bow:
may the Lord make us
truly thankful
for what we are
about to become.
Across the table
knife taps glass.
Our own structure
undeterred, necessary fact
surrounding the bounds of
silence, golden eyes.
We become quieter
when taken in many ways.
My dear friend:
that smile,
your face,
little performance a
murdered coincidence.
I asked you not to go back;
I was sad. You were lost
years ago. A stunt, I'm assuming.
Disturb en masse;
money wouldn't have done anything.
We decided brutally, suddenly,
scrubbing at evacuation.
You were close but cold, mocking
what I happened to mention.
Her tongue,
the pill,
a glass of water: swallows.
Sedated, the bedroom embrace:
try not to upset her.
Arms, slowly comforting,
clutch down at the hands.
Eyes unfocused: vision.
My baby, my baby.
Screams won't stop;
release, a way to calm her,
pull away.
Vain struggles.
The sound is monstrous.
Hunting in the land of
slow burns we found
a dark room, blind pulled.
Are you sure the limit dwells there?
The reaches of a robe, subdued grounds.
To disturb the confidentiality, the reaction
off a silver arrow, patient in its story.
Sorry to disturb this.
I understand the question now.
I'd gotten used to
fire, teenage stray a
deceitful spark,
sweetheart rush
conducting the afternoon, mouthing:
this hour will soon seem like a day.
Offend your dry idea;
it's all the same to me.
There was a time when we'd
take all pleasure into the ground.
Now it's a trick,
lying delicate to take a chance.
I'm not proud; those feelings as losses,
tragedies that run into the world.
You said the word
I can't stop hearing,
old song unbuttoning suspicion.
How you take it,
black, moonless,
the lesson haunting
your body language.
My head above midnight,
seeing melody, seeing hours
so far above.
I'd love a drink,
not at all
who smiles.
Slit open and held under one doubt I had at
four this morning I know now
what makes it work,
waxing self-defense to
constitute dead medicine.
Punk magic, you bury water
holding clean.
Something's not right,
the wind through folded water,
studying distance.
Burning Thursday,
consistent,
we suffered the beach,
too early to tell
half of
what I see.
I'm probably witnessing
a hole, severe as my mind.
When, if ever,
will you be able to talk to us?
The answer's in there somewhere.
You know what happened:
I betrayed my mother's arms,
absent-mindedly killed a
thread of love,
falling all this time to find
what's true:
shallow wounds,
a loss of blood,
self-inflicted time of death
estimated to be between
bite marks and bound wrists.
Why do I feel so happy?
Everything taken care of,
composing patterns of a
close-up picture,
the impact of fear.
