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To love

The smoke goes out the window taking
its proper time.

Mine is no mineral heart like yours,
sinister, unwilling, oddly
brave. This is not what I
was saved for, to be lice in your hair
so pluck me out and leave
for another country,
the blonde, the beautiful.

I would retire if I only had
a summer of his care,


What is this made of?,
Marble? Granite? Diamond?

Analyse everything:
volcanic ash and under the
microscope the culture changes during
the four hours you
do not watch most of all,

I have seen young boys dedicated
to collecting butterflies,
I saw monarchs and swallowtails,
New Guinea Goldens etherised
and pinned to cardboard.


Your great heart will crack,
the marrow weaken. With no little
love I tell you this. What little
I have. I thought a poet would care
for even such things.

The sublime --
have you seen it anywhere?
Your night words fall over me.
I gather them and clothe you;
this is not so, not so.

But when I lisp and stutter
you suspect the lie and even as this
body I hold.

Good bye and so allons.
Hang on to the key.
The conclusion bars applause,
for what man reveres another
before he invades him?

Think nothing but blackness:
not so deficient as the distance
from here to there. It outcultures
my life: its full moons,
successions and the pathological
use of words.

Had I the moon in my lap
I would outrun you all.

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