Monday, December 7, 2009

inside a banjo during july
we slept, nodded our heads silently during battle,
pleaded for a recollection or even
a collection of energies
to be held in our hands
but realizing that the breaths between words can yet be
deciphered though,
O God,
a rendering of perfectly symmetrical forms
is to be utterly incredulous, or maybe
just worthless to the incredible
weight of all the syllables
and faceted nailbeds we gather up
like tiny ships heading to,
O God,
a stormed fracture of ivory and statures
that we refused to incorporate
further into our slight movements,
such as the slowest gaze north,
an adjustment to the hem of a purple dress,
light purple,
almost translucent as particles of pasty light
pass through our bodies and extend through each woven corner
where estellia flowers are singing in tune
with the voices, as one, in the wind
through the olive grove

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