Aug 252011
 

Tense, but without a hinge
to direct the tension, I ache
for a doorway to anchor me,

to make my ruination real, my ashes taste,
to make the flint of my fiber flex
and pinch me awake.

I wait, vaporized napalm
for the drift of ignition, the spark
of a star chart--

the magnetized pin of direction
in all this frittery wilderness,
this haze of seeing

only what stays, what repeats:
staccato glockenspiel,
black alphabets.

Violence
makes me visible, a steam arising
out of the torrid void.


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