day long it rained on the sun
of my sobriety; full of tame beasts the night’s basket I rearranged—
my words in order &
the great salt mine giving, always, as a Gatling

merciless the hammer on Time’s face and merciless the voices of the condemned
to live, but to live truthfully
when and who did
love you as I do with the cool of a seahouse with blue windows, cyan summers
and hidden antiquities underfoot

in Anatolia the blood goes in rivers, and maybe one dawn
there will be a well from which we will ably pull up
their hands & trace all
the lines they would have traversed

the vision is a backbreaker, wrenching like a scream & simultaneously
as lovable as you
who owns a heart the volume of a double-decker bus
and, of course, eminently beautiful eyes

& sleeping like an apple; sitting inside an afternoon
of piano fingers, reaching with electricity
roundwise, like a
pylon stirring ever in such distilled             noise

I believe in all of it and nothing at once;
the movies are so bad lately, awful—
everything is loud in your soul
and quiet inside your hands

I never built in, on, or around my heart
for this need for poems to tear by it like missiles through the rag of the
& to confuse homes with aeroplanes, any given time
I would feed the rest of it to the dogs

to touch you with the parts of me that have remained human


Kandinsky – 293