i
mind is a night wing in the blind
atmosphere that sprinkles the ground
with its own dust. you are your own muscular
witness in a wide station of wandering
twin. a sphinx’s deft spree escorts you,
honey milk animal nothing, to a missing
manifold. non-copernican rubato rubato
sing their carnal doubt trapped
in the sticky fluorescence of bird mango.
you release your most seductive words
into an unfamiliar house of cards. ready?
3-2-1. you are now entering your foreign
birthplace. here is your guide. take the scribe’s
placebo and repeat after the cagey beast:
ii
i flaunt remembrance in inky woods, quote
lapses of blue shadows. for all the inevitable
holes in my umbrella, i follow my calling
to a better history. aura off-centre, i have no say
about species or constellations, only homemade
osmotic gladness and wafts from alien breezes,
the better to witness the unpractised sweet comedy
of an unmoored you blowing steepled flecks
into nothing. good, now there’s an ongoing you
who performs brilliant arcs in secret weightlessness.
someday we’ll form a cult, lowercase
you and i. our notoriety will gallop over fields!
we’ll tell ourselves we’re happy, even
as we dissolve into the wilderness of my voice.
