Behind painting is immunity, behind "I"
are naked pianos wheezing out identifications.
I remember how we mimicked one another on the lands
of the snow-patched university property
spreading our song, lengthwise, on roads that
we were not aware of.
Detours, like glaciers. We slipped and slipped,
and you were elsewhere, insulated, fiery for details
that I could not give to you.
Everywhere else, our flesh remained on attack
yet crippled by the fragrance of countenances.
To you, wherever you are. This is to you.
Ferocious underflux of memory, how it humors!
Our uncivil skies pressed for identity
possessed pulsing antennae, a booklet without directions,
a map unreasoned with highways.
The concrete gives horror.
The city. Each city flakes out for a time.
Tiger-skinned buildings with room to breathe; ointment needed
to ignite scar tissue, deleting out the delete.
Fleeting dust and spit, suspense in my heart, my quivery mouth.
Suspected listeners on either side of me, listening in.
Harpooned. You spun me into your web
like some eternal terminal.
You gazed at me. I felt that it was impossible
to be gazed upon so powerfully, yet delicately.
Grimaces like Cappucini monks.
Often I felt alien in your presence. Evading or invading.
My bones, with sprockets.
You left your oxygen within me.
I thought: There goes all of my dew.
I thought: Eyes of Sofonisba Anguisciola.
I thought: We stand here as if like burnt-up trees.
Abandoned buildings are like governmental souvenirs.
My hunger, even at this late hour, moans.
Moans and moans like saucy trees in winter.
To re-paint over a thought like this.
This is what is precious about life.
We were spooked, ballooned
and floatingly-unnameable
standing against bricked walls
taking photographs of one another.
"The uncomfortable truth of things."
Ham-stringed on stars.
My memory reminds me that
I could never be alone.
My memory exhales delicately
throughout every part of my body.
To you, wherever you are. This is for you.
are naked pianos wheezing out identifications.
I remember how we mimicked one another on the lands
of the snow-patched university property
spreading our song, lengthwise, on roads that
we were not aware of.
Detours, like glaciers. We slipped and slipped,
and you were elsewhere, insulated, fiery for details
that I could not give to you.
Everywhere else, our flesh remained on attack
yet crippled by the fragrance of countenances.
To you, wherever you are. This is to you.
Ferocious underflux of memory, how it humors!
Our uncivil skies pressed for identity
possessed pulsing antennae, a booklet without directions,
a map unreasoned with highways.
The concrete gives horror.
The city. Each city flakes out for a time.
Tiger-skinned buildings with room to breathe; ointment needed
to ignite scar tissue, deleting out the delete.
Fleeting dust and spit, suspense in my heart, my quivery mouth.
Suspected listeners on either side of me, listening in.
Harpooned. You spun me into your web
like some eternal terminal.
You gazed at me. I felt that it was impossible
to be gazed upon so powerfully, yet delicately.
Grimaces like Cappucini monks.
Often I felt alien in your presence. Evading or invading.
My bones, with sprockets.
You left your oxygen within me.
I thought: There goes all of my dew.
I thought: Eyes of Sofonisba Anguisciola.
I thought: We stand here as if like burnt-up trees.
Abandoned buildings are like governmental souvenirs.
My hunger, even at this late hour, moans.
Moans and moans like saucy trees in winter.
To re-paint over a thought like this.
This is what is precious about life.
We were spooked, ballooned
and floatingly-unnameable
standing against bricked walls
taking photographs of one another.
"The uncomfortable truth of things."
Ham-stringed on stars.
My memory reminds me that
I could never be alone.
My memory exhales delicately
throughout every part of my body.
To you, wherever you are. This is for you.
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