Pray the Blind Syllable
In spite of that constellation in the shape of
a rat, I try my prayer.
I require a father step into my dwindled.
Some say sunset hope in Kansas or Indiana.
He became friends with the coroner, asking him to let his blood into a cup.
Quietly, sixty loads of wood began to shape the
A small sliced licking liquidly delighted my face.
If my arm-hair looks sad, it is because of the
But, in truth, a tortured weather report usually penetrates my shape.
A complaining horizon says, hen-like, she
rules, ridicules, and ruins.
More even wept, impalpable, like a noise shaped to strange.
My anxious whisper is a form of fierce
You touch a proverb in my sleeve?
Cigar thread winding like smoke, aromatic,
across my chest.
I drag a fibrous cemetery to every table in the neighborhood.
I've always been lucky. Her braids are an
eclectic inheritance in my pants.
Pray the blind syllable triumphant, that it shall inherit the deep and spread of
The exquisite square of your lips.
The buffalo cabin of my burial point.
The sigh of your something else.
The somehow simpler than I've ever lost.
Yes, Pavlina, I can distinguish between your
face and a hydrogen bomb.
No. I am incapable of bronzing the sausage as if it were a dead baby shoe.
I am secretly touching your touching of me.
I am most compliant in your hidden and your most moist.
Thought, it is said, is given us because no
sparrows were present at the
precise moment of silk.
Can you dry my, shuffle my almost, and wake my breath—beetle-strong—
with or without Cameroonian dung?
The erotic purse of
The belt tightened at your waist to give you shape.
The hush of your every and your almost.
The buffalo robe of my burial point.
For the yes of snow and the stray troops
of music burn.
For my organic, anachronistic labor is more than a contracted road crew.
I was busy cutting off a finger - no it must have
been the giraffe's lush
I'd never been that tall - no it must have been the fringe of a rodent's chewed
My spelling contest self left me with solitary
interruptions of my own word.
I stood confined in the mirror and repeated Albuquerque, letter by letter,
without following the first u with an r, the final e with a reliquary of bone.
Gene Frumkin wrote me tonight, the eve of his
76th birthday, about Don
Gordon's posthumous collection.
I experienced a half-world of 1950's summary decay.
I asked the chiropractor to see if I was indeed
composed of inexplicable birds.
You are gentle mud, he confided, all male and vaguely skin.
Then my back became a valuable physics of
My thumbprint, the point of entering the Northwest Territories somehow from
If you finger my collective grammar, you'll
locate a political twin.
2 x 4 x 8 and we're there, in the I Ching's 64th hexagram, doubling the
sulfurous lunar eclipse, beginning - of course - again.