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March 07, 2017 | | Comments 0

From Afar

March 3, 2017

From afar, you said, “I’m an open book,” but when
I came closer I noticed you were wearing a vacuum-
sealed, plastic cover,

Hermetically locked priest and priestess, beast and
beast-less, waterfall and marshlands birthing deserts
and salt-soil volcano pepper-factories of naked ravens
and crystalline crows summoning farmers from graves
and Queens of forgotten kingdoms from their frozen-
tundra-lost-throne rooms, deep beneath the peat moss
aching with archeological wet dreams of unearthing and
classification, moist photography and steamed up zoom
lens, deep beneath the mistaken compliments and oddities
called ‘half-truths,’ to do their crop-corn-square
Dig, plant, watch, guard, rule, feed, harvest, consume, be,
till, rinse and repeat,

How to be useful to a god that has everything under
control? How to invent colors that see you before you
open-eye to them? How to forgive where spaciousness
knows no sin? How to reinvent the wheel while wearing
one as a visor? How to lean into a deep kiss when
there’s a pair of hungry twin grizzlies licking you toes
and sizing your cabin-fever weight gains up?

How to set a train back on its tracks when it’s red hot
and the tracks are made of galactic-compressed ice?
How to tell Diana ‘I didn’t see you there,’ while you’re
soul is watching its mortality-body trot away in a long line
of canine canines, housed inside thick muscular hides
and howls that keep werewolves in at night?

Bride of the sky,
Prince of the depths and tiny mole eyes,
King of walrus lovemaking circles,
Squire of forecasts rained out and towns torn asunder
by cotton cloaked, black lightning and windless

Clerk of trout, pike, bass, sun perch, blackened oak
leaves and mirror reflections in pools of warm blood,
Queen of fire dancing on Winterized lakes, paper thin,
hard blister-skin and riddled with veined answers dedicated
to kitten sphinxes with not a care in the world, of no world,
out of worlds and telescopes searching for new ones while
mounted on an anonymous view of its own:

Take these black scales, these black wings, these tales
of guarded and locked away seasons of pain, these
fortnights of waning moonbeams and withered phantom
hands wearing raisin-rings and dried up scorpion

The cellophane, Princess Book inside me, it’s ok,
it’s kept your pages fresh for this moment, perfectly
pressed and original,
Mirrored to notice that I’m to be your first and last Reader,
and these first fingerprints too,
The first breath, accompanied by the tulips of March and
red daffodils of April, the blue dogwoods and purple robins,
the carnival beneath the swamp, rising, Ferris wheel and all,

I open you and utter,
An eagle lands and decides ‘This is the spot’,
A nest appears,
Eggs, fledglings, curious bumblebees and talons
holding scale-covered, flip-flopping flesh to their beginner-

Eyes to the sky,
Eyes to the ground,
Brown to bark and deep green French kisses to the
roundness of moss-seed towers and parent
salamanders watching the raptor catch another.


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