Your face is the fading architecture
of your testaments to the ruined movements
of asphodel and revelation and fire: your heart
and all of your dead and unborn deeds. They have organized
around the principle of insufficient reasons.

What else is poetry?

And the captured enthusiasm of children dancing
around the wounded book of time and time’s fools
robs you of the experience of inhaling the crown of innocence
rising up to you, terrene and warm, from infancy.

No innocents now.

I’m so sorry, my friend, that the world is a history of edges
and oceans and transgressions, that it is an unauthorized account
of euphoric dying.

Sleep and softness and lost buttons and dust
stains, stone knives, cheap tokens, cairns for old stars.

My mind is an apocalypse. Your face is a poem.
I cannot escape this city of shadows
or sing your song. No one ever could
and that’s why nothing changes
the way we want it to.

We are revelation and fire and dying.
Our dreams are our own.

Still, tell me again.

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