(no subject)

[tristan_dotdot]

my left eye watches the day waltz, 
tangled up in window glass,
amidst walls anorexic and white

sometimes -- it's as though i do not even live here.

still, i decide i can unpack the boxes later
there larger business is at work.
something of the sun is dancing
to the revolution music; such a moxie,
that symphony of wood, and wine --
of sin and youth pressed beneath my throat;

the lid of my chest sounds more brilliant
open than it ever was unaffected,
filled once only with arcane possibility
these, now are my beloved echoes
trapped into edges aged and perfected yellow.

i've kept the vibrations of my childhood
all in tact, here. i, a crouching belligerence
a stunned Spartan, i have held it all in place
as only a tired child of too many failed mothers could.

i was taught to listen for storms but ignore the sky.
yet my hands touch the surface of this, now,
thundering breastplate in wonder.
a myth of intonation is at work here.

noises playing like first rain following a drought
hitting tin roofs, which are hollow with desire;
their mouths already open