Every jar holds a cloud & a razor while
you are still learning to love. Though theories of beauty intersect by night
there is no plan according to which the roof goes on. Thus it is they say throw down your language & yelp. The bus burns by the roadside. The theory is
that experiences be repeatable until the experiencing subject is mute history.
In the nights that possibly follow we’ll have pierced blue eyes & your
jacket be fringed with magpie snot.
When they turn the jars upside down then we
truly begin to fear music. The days are piccolos we lose on the runway as dogs
yelp at our thighs. Names are injections & the rawness of headgear confirms
our annihilation. A gentle breeze combs out the lake & its horizon darkens
like the blush of an apricot on a bruised hand. The burning bus represents
Nature in this time of Universal Peace. You strip out of your jacket &
chase magpies from the subway.
Their bodies were a crust as apricots
rotted in the supermarket. The days between the hours of day & night were
most perilous your teeth small & echoing. I’d often hit myself with hammers
to see if the cartoons were true which they were (happiness).
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