This bendable breakable deniable
splattering of grind and blind
cycle. Routine.
You will come to me and be disappointed,
[house made of bend and line and font
cannot stand – shifts instead].
Eyes closed? against the paper
cuts dread from suppose, cuts want
we do not know It’s not too late,
we instruct when you can still look back,
their comment commences, “no comment”.
At leech, three deep, more? no, heart of brac
or bricolage horned at the dune, the dune
of tide’s be-leaving, be-wondering dutious
dribblin’s. Sing of pink walls, pocked and put
to eyes closed? what use the mouth, the nose
when here confronted, we will graze hours
off the lotion, hours of glass, hours of tiny buttons
nubbed and rubbed to explosion. Backed again
always the mur-whisperings by of winsome nothings
behind design the word ‘hand’ floating above,
a serif for your thoughts, this touched calligraphy
traced from down tendon to up vein to further;
I will leave my pulsed and beaten graffiti
at you, at yours, tagged not to adduce but bare
(like anyone) “I was here,” and leave no firmer
permanent mirror than a drop of me in you.
The ease that is my plague, the voice your whi-murmur
of crux and essence and what will be quiddity
to definition, to emotion, this tingle all unbid
that wants you green, yes, but will hold you blue
or spectrumed to whichever shade comes from hid
done to add apostrophe, or on a good day, the umlaut
divided apart this break to word to meter to this font
container of some blessings flow, branches of sandpaper
frictions of the rub to the grain, some easy détente
of the rasp of the nub to the paper, the flow of the ink
tendoned from down, traced to up, sinewed in the vein;
your holdings, your inured givings, you will twin your wrap
and my limbs where penned will meet the g(r)ave refrain
of your stare,
clean,
dashed,
flat.
© 2012 – Mark A. Douglas – All Rights Reserved
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