they took you now, contraptions no longer. there is a palpable quiet

      in the home. o lattice,
o vase of concrete, o smolder of onion
and the grave death of sugar;

the splintered staircase creaks
on no footwork and to go back to
cerements of this ceremonious banishment of shadow peals through
  gates opening to blue depths.

tonight, the room is as haunting
as old pangs. gnash the light of
moon past mud and linoleumed floor.
cross out my eyes and empty the
visage of their macabre.

   going back to tractable beginnings
as the bell tolls for no one:

  i stagger and startle the cornerless
  shadow, waking the orchestra of
  dogs to fracture the stillness

  like how drunken men curse at
  wives and throw vases against
  roses tossed to the dead.

  flesh warms no longer.
  garlands overwrought
  with serpents.

  glimmers of stone as dead
  as petrified oak.

  streets begin to narrow
  as light starts to pass on
  as answers.
  we make no sound.

you will only look for which road i have
  passed, with girth of oceans startled
  to hip-curve, bow-legged darling
  hiding behind pretense of rose frailty.

when words ripen, they fall.

from vaudeville of fools to silence
in all its exactness, i take my place
amongst people in stations, machines
adorning rotundas, courtyards to a flourish of twilight-bells, the men with retinas spry behind cloaks of smoke—

        plain, **** drunkenness assaults
the billion-blooded sea, each line fraught
with inebriation: a god is borrowed with
what light fruits from a slow nature, quick
to burst and torturously maimed in stride.

fated to arrive at one morning —
being in total placeness and making merry
once again, the dreary face waiting at
the portico of days collected.

when these words start to wind-hover,
a string of birds will appear clearer,
mounting umbilicus of lines.
as in hounds shear the metastasizing dark,
going back to chagrined kens,
i make truth out of the tragedy:
trace the source of this stream and find
my trampled body, floating with
   the sandalwood. when the still, clenched hand clock-punches,
   make real the insignia of my arrival:

words start with limbs to cross
  this scalped Earth which moves suddenly naked, leaning in, gropes you
in stillness, resuscitating the moon from
the working of insolvencies we rear
in derelicts of days.

drags it closely to ends — left trundling
in woe's wearisome vessel. and if in
this newly thatched home it screams,

let this voice deftly shred
so i may once more lie straight to your
half-illuminated faces, a call i
only hear.

goaded by a stereophonic monotone:
a flumine voice waxes with lovelorn dregs.

i heard the plump word of rescue
dangle from the heady decibel of song,
winterward, blue-veined and stillicide.

no more, shall the wind traverse the impasse of the verdigris. the incertitude
of beginnings sigh ultimately.

o people, your darling children soldered
to your denims. o rosefrail and sightless
bannerets — we mourn such coming.
it sleuths with a tangle of fingers
underneath fringes of flesh-warmed
draperies with a different temperament
as moderate as climates in squandered tropics, flows with a truth wishing it
more of the untruth:

never shall return, in faraway lands,
never shall look back and lay in prairies
attenuated, continue to sing oblivion.

milbrightlions of December —
you come announced in multiplicity.
even the night-herald blooms through
the beams of astounded simulations.

buoyantly uttering a word
of light, stilling itself in the sky,
unasked for.

surmounting the Narra and the mangrove,
sieged to a halt in its exactitude
like the uncomplicated machination
of what makes fire simmer in a wick.

all of its brazenness hearten
in easily toppled altitudes — even our
battlements scar our unexplained
liminality we grieve at first glance.

airless are the spaces we lean on,
testing their capacities. shrills bloom
clearer. our mouths plump and glazed.
our flesh hurtle all incarnadine, all true
unlike the twining of roads lit like
faces in the marketplace —
       a dynasty of brokenness.

even the dullest of knives
can **** —

a smile has fallen deep into
the silence.

wincing on and off
like terrible vertigo.

it is you lashing across
dispersing images

seeping like ruthless mileage
underneath the bone.

you come in the room
full of these hours splintered

an outpour with a foreboding,
like spindrift you wet my lips

sealed shut and silence
is all the language i understand.

what good is there that this hungry
cavalcade gapes its mouth

and metastasizes like an opulent
laugh as maniacal as drum-taps?

your are river with feet or pond
sprawling mad, enigmatical.

is this the clearing motes depart,
unhinging the crepuscular

and fade out, as a cat shrieks tumbling writhing fornication of metal and rust?

even sleep cannot manage such realness,
and the doubleness of its comatose

or say, a war in spite of its radical
artillery. between two cities lost,

its indefatigable exertion pullulates
to a hand, laying garlands

over the same blue lament of sky
and the unawakened orioles.

my poised mother stances
to behead the onion—
begins a murderous sound brigade
of simmer in the home.
the fizz starts to assault the restive
pulse of woodwork,
the red plush of air in the heart of cauldron — little child you are no longer
  a boy; the furniture is arranged and
the nail is hammered to its deep oceania.

the feeling of stillness,
  a saboteur.

a stasis of dark flounders a steady lark.
headiness of scent peregrinating
toughness, the countenance of walls.
i am always the egg smashed opened,
cracked, bleeding clear, yolk gallops,
  slides like thigh upon fault of pond.
i begin to understand the curious case
  of feral, the benign death of rodent;
the cupboard infested with species
  running around China plates.

  the quietude starts
to confront the little house
   of moon — the silvery mane of water
trapped in the Earth, listen to its bell;
the shiftless rotund of its footfall,
    these are the hooves of it, rummaging
   past the minutes like a horse.

air pours alive in stringencies,
fall of tor and expanse.

mazy-eyed,
casts a syncopated hook
amongst tulips beheaded

by the toppling of a leaf
bracing for departures,
something else holds back,

furrow—
the thatched morning's serious mien,
the arrow, whirling in trajectories

one with the dive into red cauldron
of infinite scar of water,
Śiva, sighted footfall of the condor's

verdigris, this simple rustle
of your scourge-gowns
insists cadence of flutings;

i am one with beginnings.
swarming poultice of the inflamed grass,
obscene lines of shore in twilight

unfazed virulence spreads
like an epidemic of kisses against the
pulsing loam, cries like breakwater

lorn the fault of men, death at one's
trembling hand — sound the tribulation
of slender bells to a gather of pallors.

it is a stopping in-placeness
like crests of *******, a beautiful woman,
shiftless weight of light on glazed    collarbone, Śiva, the enigmatical paradox

beleaguers a concatenation of
unloose chandeliers of appurtenances,
the unblinking aperture, widening in sky.