Saturday, November 14, 2009

If I Had Possession Over Judgement Day


On nature’s drunken lips
Oh most beautiful bird
I forget if you fly south for winter
Not in certainty if I shall see you again
A smell of china and wood and drought
Thirty years’ of wanting,… why?
The Awful wearing of paper Jesus-masks
A laugh a murmur chanting waving now first grace
Amongst the passing legs
Homer in the stairwell
Is what you wrote for real?
My earth-mouth, art, rots away
As I create nature daily
This is how I know myself
This is how I remain.

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