Vol 10, Num 7 :: 2011.04.08 — 2011.04.21
You and your prodigal
everglades, lush and slick and hot
under the tongue teeming
with life, steamy
reservoir of sex, lips like
the wide opening
in the beech tree,
almost indecent,
a deep deep
hole of want;
darkness, but full darkness,
darkness like the dark
soft fur of a warm feral cat,
darkness like garden dirt
under fingernails, smelling of sage
and mint and compost,
darkness that bears
evidence of life.
And then, me. I am not dark,
but light, blinding white
like the view from a Trans-Siberian
railway window, white
like vast stretches of barren
land, searing wind so icy
it feels hot
on the eyes, the kind of wind that burns
your flesh like a branding iron
marking you for being
there in all that empty
space, the open scrub fields
sliced by snow, a sharp
wind moving across the flat land so
fast it seems to hover
numinously
several inches above ground
like wild hungry ghosts
who have become unhinged
by their material absence — sans
lips, sans eyes, sans sex —
the emptiness that comes
from being
outside
of life and death.
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