Aoide
the debris, the guitar
she left was sleeping,
was gathering, the dust
trailing her sylph with
knife tips and cypress
of pink going by,
the edge of a fracturing
nail was a war
on memory, the
shifting towards
was a foreward,
this morning of sand.
easy little paste, blue flies, a sovereignty in our
salvation dispenser, noise wandering up her Persian
landscape;
she is standing in the color of the air, nowhere in everything.
her head is a receptacle, listening to
the endless beach, pieces of sculpted half-lives,
which half is inside the desert sea,
the bare stage?
Wherever were my welds,
My mounds, my wounds?
It flies under me, your picture,
A war on memory, fatherless day moon;
The night of an American sundown.
Mirrorwalls or time moving forward.
A lineal system of interruptions
Betray our indirect spin, towards
Forewords,
Darkness becoming light,
In the beginning of the epitaph
Everywhere is the face of God.
And when we become blind,
With your body in the past,
With you choreographed finally
Under grass, we put away
Your shoes under looking glass.
Terpsichore
