Phrases, intermittently ordered.
No pattern holds
unless a malleable corpse.
On the glass codex
twenty fingers poise:
silent hands are anagrams.
Dust-yellow burn of honey-bee,
Armenian primavera, memory’s kerchief.
Costive, surely.
But the fury of generous language
lays waste to memory.
I see angels walking towards me over the lawns;
sparse shadows, a woman’s grace, a gesture evading terror.
The sudden certainty of physical desire,
avenging angels alive in the honeycomb of words.
‘in the darkness that hid him from himself
he could relive those moments of agony: fascinated,
drawn to each nuance and detail over and over and over:
continually failing to fully achieve a remembrance
that was focused, or complete … the cycle aborted and fruition unattainable’
You lifted your arms
like thirsting flowers
and slipped slender shadows
over your breasts:
eyes: blue
lips: rose
I looked and saw.
Entering the house by
way of the kitchen; the heavy
lock chasms into porcelain silence.
Before reaching the stairs, my mind
retraces a path through the bright garden:
I can communicate no humanness in a nightmare.