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CIPHER
Ahora quiero que digan lo que quiero decirte
para que tú me oigas como quiero que me oigas. —Pablo Neruda a surface of boundaries is irrevocably hoarse a hostage garden —Jean Donnelly for Doug I Above the hour as usual each cusp a probable as is the tug drop of us, a minim of the scar, the ceremonial in successive generous permit, or just the sense restaurants (or other that one is already mad succor) beyond coil & bide. as your travels are rust- The shroud is not colored & stories mine, nor brick can’t be possessed nor crane. by anyone, not If we track the shirking really. furies—disguised If one finds as hummingbird the habit rooms & banana flower— wanting, or zopilotes would you then measure gorging themselves or lapse there II how wicked he left me pirating a music meant to loom & pollinate measure each word, the sudden gesture of enclosure what would I say? if you were that river, or my hand all over the city dusk & current the beginning of this love for you was written through what was left of me you can’t possibly imagine the endurance of doubt shuffle & pose the floral arrangements were unbearable For though love has a spider’s eye To find out some appropriate pain I am hurrying through my own dreams to get there III under teeming duress on the ant farm & on the runway forgo & slumber I am slang for luck one is already mad I am wondering for you one is all ready those dreams were portents “like it or not” for the slots & the countries as a particular damage or drunkennes remnants, numbers & rescue & reputable frame of the heart a song tucks itself blithely spent by dishonesty into offices & airports & you a bird in suit & a bird in a coffin continue on as if I never watched so if the martyr is fantastic your story or faltered if the runway is ready IV love cannot end us hiking back to where you were the nights become slaves last seen to their nervous beliefs to withered collections of books & the moon is intolerable & the crushed grass where we have lain but this voracious theology the verb shall not touch our gold inscribed, our cipher nor sweeten her writing one is heavenly our cool root, our vagabond V we knew exactly what she loved your arms her parentheses you are purely portrait each curve or vein the great estate time has no idea lost her mind in the fern without a name sometimes our names sleep too dream as you once dreamed the flowering of lawlessness corruption of the sweet pages waiting in the torn meadow we loved to leave them there a true world fictively constructed & the sane ones grew horns our houses burned into themselves & left silence to itself he was eating soup with some friends he fell in love with a woman there a piece of dusk caught in his mouth VI the sky too wants fortune wearing the boots of gentlemen & this voice, the crucible as children we imagined this the sand in our eyes & inhabited our losses a darker steeple shadow dreaming of how to adorn left to the stairwell weather the impossible |  |
