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    Wednesday, January 24, 2007


    Minor breakdown.

    All these faint euphemisms
    to salve gravity’s lashes, iambs
    to stitch the welts on
    lips, tendons, vertebrae,
    but what tender voodoo can undo
    the undoable now?

    Not poetry, not your most
    liberal fingerprints, not heads
    welded together in statuesque ache—
    So I lost six days, my love,
    in that black, putrid chantry,
    so I knelt on stone-shredded knees
    shadowing the silhouettes of shadows

    It was nothing really,
    I tripped back like a flung door
    into sewn scabs, trusted drugs,
    the dribble-grey hole of my own invention,
    every backbent wing a confidant,
    every inscribed letter an epistle.

    Momentary lapse.

    Forgive me for saying what
    I most needed to say, murmured,
    murdered into the spire that’s
    slitting up your righteous lap, shiver-shook
    and glacial, bloodletted and blue,
    the leached light squirming in

    So I lost six days, my love,
    like an icicle loses its fang,
    venom drained, half-mugged and half-
    surrendered, half-gnarled by the thaw,
    but don’t even my lies happen
    to be true now and then?

    Disconsolate dawn
    takes the reins from roughshod night,
    the damage becoming clearer, more
    foolish, in its chronic bath—
    so now I have that junky grammar
    scrawled on my skin again.

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