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| from New Haven Joshua Beckman |
*** They, lost, and to the touch of one another do go and to say such things in the grass plain of day gone longto be comfortable or to lay there ruining one's clothes and in the air above the growing lawn a bell reflects itself in sound and askswhat will will leave you this?to touch and at once to be touched. Easy again blows the warm wind and we bend to it as does the grass, but we are wanting. *** Lying in bed I think about you, your ugly empty airless apartment and your eyes. It's noon, and tired I look into the rest of the awake day incapable of even awe, just a presence of particle and wave, just that closed and deliberate human observance. Your thin fingers and the dissolution of all ability. Lay open now to only me that white body, and I will, as the awkward butterfly, land quietly upon you. A grace and staying. A sight and ease. A spell entangled. A span. I am inside you. And so both projected, we are now part of a garden, that is part of a landscape, that is part of a world that no one believes in. |
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