what aches
of extremities are laid out like winter trees shivering in a nonexistent breeze,
blood has an end to it. i could watch where it runs frantic
but i do not mind and tend these aches like the premature child
that i am this is only a skeleton of thoughts
no longer color but an in-utterable light that is the fluctuation of your ribs when there is so little
air in them and a heart that slows like the soft feeling of the moonrise just over the hill which
was once dark in a way that was like no other darkness that we might remember but that does not make it so
i am tired, everlastingly. a vacant sun today and the sky just
a vast haze. i would take you to my heart but that is in the hinterland that i am
not blessed or cursed to roam any longer. i cry for elizaville, and milan, yes,
and the lake of the deli which is god the surrealist's fond memory.
i have lost my sound, the crows flung out like dusk
and the waterfalls now pooling only in my veins
underneath the skin, unbruised and perfect. this is ruin,
to be unloving, to be taken out of suffering,
to be a fool giving nothing to the world. this is
deepest surrender.