Thursday, August 11, 2011

poem in progress


we ate late
thin instruments in arms
subtlety held in place with marks, rouged, the skin of things the slit between us.

And what of hands, what of the bareness of hands
      (that night, dressed in hunters outfits)
      Acting on whim, the knowledge that all things must pass through
          We pay our returns

there need be no astonishment only pure margin
articulation of loss
the friend who opens
several themes at once
      the almost there        the devouring of all recognition        the demand

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