Thursday, January 11, 2007

It Is in This Sense

Language reaches for a cocktail
dharma like a subway
(the well-known
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
Eating twenties,
what apparition, blue and
pure, spoons sudden twilight into us?
What unreasonable
guides the Mirror to reflection?
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.

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