Friday, June 24, 2016

It may be but it’s not true



It may be but it’s not true


Sweet, sweet man
you turn on the light and leave,
torn clouds bring fresh memories,
and you so poor
            / inscrutable,
dumped on the breast of fire.
Your wife wants to set herself ablaze,
while a timid bush uncovers your essence.
It is the door through which you breathe the odor
that crowds bands of beast.

Poor boy        stopped in your tracks
            / by the hallucinating blow of       I can’t.
Death never insinuated itself to you more than dust.
It stood like a stone in your way,
while you gathered a cluster
of open, bleeding, dismembered guilt
in the faint-hearted act of resting
            / under the tender stupor of laurels.

No, you never were,
not in the slightest, the wings
the lavish dreams of broken hymen.
You did not feel like grazing
and autumn was a blurred city
in shadows
            / almost limpid,
a rotten pond bursting the grenade
you carry wedged between your legs.

You had no desire to graze
regardless of the bland frenzy of birds
that ripen thorns by pecking.

And they were thorns
            / if not why the blood
that springs from the root of the tree,
which rises like a mound,
an angel-proof grave,

where on the top of the grotto
            / volcanoes burst,
or consumptive beehives are uncovered.

You raised the lamp,
but your face in the mirror was a dim spot,
the fireproof steel was a lie,
quicksilver    a lie,
the rust was a lie.





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