January 10, 2011


Erstwhile dreams and prophetic sequences
of a bone structure built for flight,
of exploding mad into the night—
like flowers smearing the sky,
like raining bright red showers—
of dying in multi-soul embraces,
of expanded vibrant spaces
all tend to meet their sedentary death,
unused and unsprung.
Resting tepid,
engulfed by the anesthetics
of familiar objects and lovers’ soothing tongues.
No one ever litigates
for passionless crimes against the self,
for your harmony with the unsung choir
despite a throat full of your own songs.
It’s all neatly wrapped in compromise
and wistfully admired
by those who can afford only to wear it.

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