it is not that we are far away
but there is this stilled candor that
there are spaces, gaps, turns and swerves that we cannot close.
as in a star in its throne will remain
to be lit in diadem of white, cannot be touched or you in your silence
with the drone of such tired machine:
moon's all round and all i saw, yet not
always the visible, encircled in flesh and
without so much question, the mind's a
quicksilver marauding to motion all
things except your own parasols bending
to such airlessness, and to make tractable, this unstable mirage
of you, fulminating in such bright auroras persisting within the day when you
arrive not with hands but with chains,
machineries and not bones, no such lissomeness of skin love-hewn but walls,
not the earthen night but only brindled silence like the world whispering ssmething
close to the ear not love but pain.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 9:23 AM UTC
it is not that we are far away
but there is this stilled candor that
there are spaces, gaps, turns and swerves that we cannot close.
as in a star in its throne will remain
to be lit in diadem of white, cannot be touched or you in your silence
with the drone of such tired machine:
moon's all round and all i saw, yet not
always the visible, encircled in flesh and
without so much question, the mind's a
quicksilver marauding to motion all
things except your own parasols bending
to such airlessness, and to make tractable, this unstable mirage
of you, fulminating in such bright auroras persisting within the day when you
arrive not with hands but with chains,
machineries and not bones, no such lissomeness of skin love-hewn but walls,
not the earthen night but only brindled silence like the world whispering ssmething
close to the ear not love but pain.
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