Thursday, August 6, 2015

the devil's milk.

i remember falling,

breeze of the fountain
pushing itself toward
mid-november leaves.
i did not
make a sound. the leaves did.


were around, as were
my hazardous
interpretations of them. and i saw myself:

third-world human being

in the telescope, peeked at
through shades, in
the windows- in the light of clouds, yet also

a distorted reflection. memory

without entrance, but too
without exit-
forever has always been here. this

is home we nurture. if you relate to

being, then you
be sweet, nectar- you stomach-keeper, lockets

keeping us unlost-
war distanced. walk through a tour
of disintegration- the soft sighing. the

silent respecting.