IX, X, XI,XII

 

IX Marcus builds his babies. They are

physically hand grenade. One is his

darling, his humours. One his 

scourge. Marcus made a baby. Its

hand for the women. Marcus slams

on the door. For he had a world

to do. We saw he had failed at

his chance. The thing you ought to do. 

X It made two lists to 

struggle. Go out. The trees

orange glow about the

railing. We are going sad

towards the Bright new 

Days. Must eke the

beforehand of rooms. 

It tastes the good. Spends

money. Wails out of the palm.

XI There’s a way

for biting the 

facial patterning.

Acts on heaps of

stomach. A dark

and greenish moth.

I’ve carved my

knees for biting. 

Bite. Bite again. 

Revise. Immutable  

socket. Winter. 

Distillation. How

old. Hungry. As

you became wrapt

the air dressed 

you. The clouds

kissed your spine. 

Lay there out in

the garden. A pool

of your growing

lifelessness. 

XII The list begins to glint a quiet violent orange. Impossible to see. Each letter is a living evaluation of scattered motive. One day respond. One day, respond. Until then it is forever too late. Nothing will be cleared. Oily. Was oily. Oily and ashamed.

 

An Arabella

Today I met an Arabella, and moving

through the valley swish from the trees, 

a stream broke away, long grasses cut at my thighs

oh moving feels so frequently sad and alone,

or unable to fill up this time without recourse 

to the usual flares flash in the sky, at deep midnight. 

Still, I had never met an Arabella 

scrunchies at our wrists which indicate

a pleasant day pours into the world, I walked out calm. 

An Arabella, further, to a person or a sound 

I once met, last night and music appeared. 

Tracing alone through the valley dark and cold

daylight for once, today,  and not a threat. 

An Arabella sundown in the garden 

waking from a dream into another dream 

where long grasses tingling my clear thighs

swallowtails over the pond is only music.

If I could say an Arabella day. Walking to the copse 

where I spoke with the others, shunned

by the village approach, out and south we rode

in scrunchies, little ribbons lit the way. 

Until the dreaming dawn, you must wake up, 

go to a little work and rest by the moon’s blue fire. 

I’m on my knees like real estate, neither praying

but waiting for the grasses to rise up

hi an Arabella morning light, enclosed.

Aubade

Ask me. The answer will always be no. 

Ask me again and again

amongst the pinprick light

of the stars, for now

I believe in the stars. I believe in them for you

and get back silence

which deepens love

and anxiety, shelving like the sea

we once swam in, remember? Silence. For soon

we will all need such silence, can you hear it? 

The night is coming, but the bright day

is where we will hide

conduct our loves under pinprick cover. Ask me. The answer

will be in secret

is the only way to move

they want us dead. Our love is dead to them. The answer is always no

silently we kiss among the pinpoints 

of stars, and I believe in the stars

for now, take cover

triumph silent heart.