Thursday, November 17, 2016

Caught Up in Absolute Gravitation


It’s true
Antonin Artaud told us

Life consists of burning up questions
Sharp sensations in our limbs
Stilettos of ice lodged in our throats

Night’s blurred voice
Scraping against the earth
A low mutter over cold stones
A thin untethered scuff—a moonlit scrap
All tangled up in the toils of desire
Igniting tiny constellations in our eyes

A word like what?
Just like a naked foot
Rippling the black water of our love
A shivering pane of star-swerved sound
Immoderate ecstasy or anger
The whole goddamn milky way
Hurling over us