Language reaches for a cocktail
dharma like a subway
(the well-known
months
large as naked London, the
aching fog)
Still in the published bones
secret things stand, explore the
curve of torsos, these psychic Alps.
Tired, I dry the dishes, French
kissing Wednesday, startled as a
statistic.
Eating twenties,
what apparition, blue and
pure, spoons sudden twilight into us?
What unreasonable
illumination
guides the Mirror to reflection?
Lexicographers
loathe luxurious latex.
Inside my poem, loneliness is a vault putting on make-up.
Chopping down the
compass, we explore evening like two
musical instruments
There is
a funny balancing called noon.
No comments:
Post a Comment