I
would angelize a woman, sweet suffocation, while nothing is holy; not through
bone nor character to scrape ashes or sip pollution so invited to hate
ourselves: sour haze rotten perfection where one might baptize fury: the
language of dogs the valley of guts such syrupy corruption—to bleed movements
to grip his brains where fading seems so natural. I would see bread aside wine
where its survival meant belief. by benthos or Jewish determination to
outwit infection—so veined in blood so crooked by face where something
debilitates a man: her cogent flesh; her galling wit; her affectionate grief.
so tender to man such daughters in flurry to bend a flute or grapple a knife
while anger just prunes her beats; such shapings as surrender while unsettled
by defeat: the angelized human, those graphic rulers, with knuckles knotted or
knitted to physics. to retype software with nothing but vision at needs to set
the precedence: time into space or meta-daughters into violence where it seems
like father’s vehemence: by audience to live, by communion the last breath, or
devoid of everything one ever believed in; upon a tablecloth, into a daughters
eyes, such sour tasting revenge: our guts trailing, the coyote vigilant, the
daughter hypersensitive; a man as shadows to overbear reality or so much nerve
as to oust an owl where mind is hawking Sirach.
