by what courtesy of some small voice does the city speak,
little and so much
it says, "by the way have you seen the old man in
his tired skin,
waiting next to the young drunks so loud underneath they are so loud and not a whisper can escape , "
the city, and it talks too much it
cannot be heard
over its own
do you know?
have you been?
have you been by the slant ways behind the hills there is store and have you
wandered much in it?
have you gone down the little rows and counted them?
have you looked into the tired eyes of weary mothers and fathers?
have you seen in them your mother and your father?
have you kissed with them your thoughts and wondered on the small
mystery of their being?
have you wondered at them looking at you(and what do they see)?
have you thought to reach out and touch them and ask them how they are doing?
have you wanted to look in their eyes and tell them that you know they are tired but there isn't much left to go and you know how hard it is and that you are sorry and that they are as soft and as infinite as your own self?
have you dreamt much?
have you gone out from the store, into the nice mouth of the city, and have you seen the same tired look in the same weary bodies?
where have you been in the Summer?
have you been by the bank of a river?
did you let your toes in it, and did it feel so cool as to rush across them you suddenly want to pull them out?
and how did it feel, the first time you were kissed, and sweaty between the arms, you pushed in even tighter?
have you laughed much?
when was the last time you laughed?
did it feel as if it was the last time?
did you watch your laughter curl away into nothing like a vine of fume from a smoker's mouth?
did you watch it curl away and wonder if you might be lucky enough to laugh tomorrow(and did you wonder how many more days and nights you might be lucky enough to not laugh)?
did you cry after you laughed?
did you look down at your hands and marvel at the intricacies of your bone and flesh?
did you ever hold them up against the night sky and marvel at the tinniness of their work? (have you held them up before your face in a dark room and wondered what it would be like to not see?)
have you struggled much?
do you ache, and are you sore?
do your muscles hurt?
do you feel heavy with obligation?
do you feel tired from living, and with life?
from where does your pain begin, and where does it end?
did it begin in the hands of someone you thought you loved? did it end in the empty stare of someone you thought loved you?
have you hurt anyone?
how did you feel?
did you tell yourself it was ok?
what did you tell yourself?
who were they?
why did you hurt them?
are you awake?
are you reading this?
will you wake up tomorrow (and every tomorrow until you don't), and will you remember this moment?
will it fade into nothing?
will you recall it suddenly in some still moment?
will you look out the window of your car on your way to work and catch the sliver of some stranger's face in the quick of your mind?
will you wonder on their life, and the sliver of your own face, caught in their mind?
and will you remember?
will you remember?
let's say begin me the you way
the closed fist of my petals,
than opens me the light fingers
of in may Spring. than
the rain does,
in autumn when
dies the trees to neatly wonderful,
(and i come into their black bodies
the sliver of my mute flesh;
stopping on brief immutable desolation
my awe to wander enormously)
the dew is fast and quietly begins me
when: like that you
are like you are
like my to unfist (and with bright colours
does up what seems a little clumsily down snow?
everywhere, perhaps?seems snow
edge or fay
where might Spring's lewd fingers fit?
lewd fingers fit fat
lewd fingers find fickle fair frayed a bit fay
where its fingers can fit?
whose thick fingers
between the quick thighs of night
can. fit in)just Spring
not matter does whatever this world thinks(i
will go by flights of angels
i will go by florid gasping of soundless immutable
waters of. i
will pass my little ship its sails may bend
i will go o'
i will go shall not by the whatever the world thinks
despite angels (on whose breath shall carry me
through what body of flowers does your kiss move,
its muscles softly more
where palm tightens against neck
in leaping heaps of strenuous hurt.
hurt that loves to.to
come against me
the forking of its river, its
wideness of thigh, and the plying
of my open fist
to splay the dirt
and plant amongst your dying earth
the heat of
as if to seems by (hung the little world
the eyes noose
). Perhaps or
the soul more?
the could be hands loose
,the pinkset ear, whorl'd?
(between who where is who
makes or unmakes the rain)?
hands and unhands alike
tremble to fill:
the crooked barrel
o' flower's stemm'd pain.
(the ridiculous i.
the absurd you.)
forget not words, body
thy soul is
hair fantastically ; more unsquare
than an angle
or an exact
adding of some subtracted
singular substitution. (your
of infinite flower
quietly mysterious and far away i love you
i love you the big and small unnearness
of your imagined hands i wonder which
on your body's wrists (and the head upon
clothed in shortness) are skinny so nice
and never to be known by my hands you
are so unloud will not ever close and
(i will love you always even though you will never know)
open me your hands
fists cruelly which
their tightness conceal
(a cut distinctly of certain cuteness bleeding)A
a branch of sometimes petal bearing stems.
(a kiss and roughness)
Open me them
a strip of easy with parting rain which sometimes in April feels like dying
feels like pusshing apart of lips, hot redness, and snuff of steep fuzz.
i have loved.
the crust of life
the o how divine reeling
of its casual thrill. and
the stern parting of flowers to break
against each heap of striding leg
their sinuously lurching scent.
and oh god how i have
loved the demure sex
of stopping day
;and where it has splayed most lustfully
)the music of my
and the chanson of lilies.
God, and sweat oh
how i have loved thee the
swiftly naked among unnaked things.
(as a juniper, caroused with poppies,
and my neat hand curled upon a glass perspired(
the driving through late nights
and the sudden stopping at the end i have gone miles into twilight and how many i do not know to find girls in sleeping bodies i have gone miles into twilight to find them and press apart their sleeping bulbs they might suddenly alight)
but does not my fingers' itching
to meet with some things tight,
or day begin,
or the last futile gasp of easily purring Summer
match by cruel luck
the urge of life to sin?
i do not know.
i only know that i have loved,
(let us see if that's enough).