Friday, December 30, 2016

Cooing the Man that is Singing




Cooing the Man that is Singing


He sings like the secret of stale rags.
Opens unexpected seed pods.
Grows eyelids to relieve our poverty.

I break the dream that drew me to his voice
and leave through a window to another jail

where I fast in labyrinths
stripped of leaves by music,
disfigured by foam.
I write so as not to lick the floor.

I compose homelands 
with oxidized tongues (landscapes 
with closed doors & mud ankles),
islands of guitars without strings.

He sings like skies feed on watches
to make our days believe our right ear
is a boy soaking his memory
in The River of Docile Waters.

He calls out my name,
my silences of squeaking doors,
my butterfly scars.


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