O Theodore I’m yours and I’m not yours
—Spike Jonze, Her
While I say this I'll be wiping
the lenses of my
Eyeglasses the better to see the
dark city I speak
Now as a man hollowed out but not a
hollow man
As a road without cars but not an
empty road
Here and there trampled innocence
can be seen
Tiny fires cupped in the hands
of traitorous angels
The silence in the sky isn’t
it so depressing to be
Overwhelmed by stars by night’s
efficient legions
Made somehow pure and new somehow
not
To be ignored O why does this instinct
of despair
What Frank O’Hara might’ve called a
terrible
System of belief why does this erase
blindness
Not from the man but from the blind
man’s dog?
Now speak nocturnal linen unfurl
across my loins
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