Breath tone—numb, driving on the most orange cover
of poems taken away
by an act
—the flat feeling of nothing whatever to say.
Still.
Never used—an ignorant lexicon better acquainted
with your indent, slope, and distance.
Remember rather that hag with knife-teeth, skulls and candlelight
—walking house and all
coming near.
No one without sisters escapes—yet, only brothers carry.
Yet.
Too much bound for eyes set on seas and foreign suns
and too many kisses on heads bent eating
too long
leave drives to settle, sublate, and breathe.
