she
hides from herself
the
pain is like eating thorns.
so
blue, so bold, the chair is aflame.
the
awning is Africa, the syntax
is
Europe:
almond
eyes, spirit tinges, cringing
the
great minimalization.
Africa
is killing Africa;
language
is a cedarchest;
Mexico
is an heirloom.
she
hides in dungeons; she loves as disputed:
the poet
needs the parasol—the flame,
features
going mild, women looking
like
ink.
the
greats are singed, severed, exalted.
syllabic
Russian beaut. Jerusalem
with
fire, Europe is Danish. never
with
respect, as not to see a woman;
never
with disrespect, as not to see
a
woman.
the
comma, so intimate, the pain,
glorious—looking
at one, seeing
thrice—courting
each personality.
the
poet can’t love, she tries, she dies;
the
scribbler is assaulted by Africa;
the
musician is traveling Italy;
the ventriloquist,
fretting the dungeon.
too
much the losing of time—the pain
in
arms, the fright in dying; it’s
coming
it’s
rapacious,
mothers
are waiting—to leap into
razors,
a foolish clown, a soul trying
to
escape the beauty.
