Sunday, July 6, 2014

In the Tower of Love

The sun goes astray
or is lost forever
we fly in secret,
umbrellas opened against the first possibilities
it rains literature upon us
My amnesia is military and obvious
it was first presented in the inversion of war
and now is amongst the property of the world
as if it was the necessity of free things
stolen by a carpenter
who is inclined to hide it in a book.

The skin is inflicted by
intersections of light
the prominence of the tracing hand
making circles along the angles
of imprecise tranquility- it will find
all of the incomplete vertebrae
and expose the barely concealed buttons
of impossible night
it will scratch out the meaning
of convergence with the stinger of a bee
with what is left of the various days.


A quick walk through the history of freedom
will show the hiding places of sheep
the partially exposed foot raised in anticipation of falling
the odor of persistent toes
the great laceration of fatigue and
the part of the balance where we fall out of bed
and into history.

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