Isn't the act
of placing flowers on a tomb
a gesture of bringing
a little life
back to the dead?
Memories, stilled and muted harmonia,
silk-heavy in the russet wind,
like sinuous leaves with ice-cracked spines,
and a timbre of slowness,
In a schema of licentiousness,
Prompt, more so than age,
these liver spots on my translucent skin.
But the act itself,
its flash powder of yellow-tan dust,
engorges the hour-hand at its brightest,
in a languor reconstituted: all just variations of dusk --
And the end is composed of orchids,
and the lopped heads of milkweed,
sundered by centrifugal force:
an effulgence of shadows,
shimmering on sun-whetted stone.
And I place flowers on my father's grave,
a gesture, like any other,
to bring life to the dead.
And beside me two junkies eat a watermelon from a plastic bag,
And a black and white tit hops beneath their feet.
Now my palms are blanched in a pattern of earthveined rust,
and as pebbles, indicative of meaning, litter the sky of sand,
its absence is a comfort.
REMINISCE THEN IS THE CHARRING OF THE MOORLAND BY INCESSANT HEAT.
IT IS THE LIMP NECK OF THE PIOUS GROUSE,
THE TRILLING NASAL SCRAWL OF ITS GRIEFBLIND MATE,
IT IS THE SNAPPED TETHER,
A SCHOONER GUIDED BY LEYLINES AND CAST ENTRAILS,
A TRANSUBSTANTIATED EUCHARIST OF THE INCHOATE
Accession here means there is nothing left but the one,
Rejection that not even the one remains.
Whist, I say.
Whist, I know.
Whist, I know and love you.
This is a quilt-work composed of acts of forgetting,
and each instance of kenning is a quickened sapling.
The variable alone brooks difference,
as memories harden in the dermal layer.
This is what it means to be bereft,
and with no ready mercy.
This is an altar for Harry Wasylyk,
the patron saint of archways,
whose polyethylene skin eschews grace for ennui,
as he watches us slouch-hang our mouths into victuals of lilting
lines of brutal song.
In 1925, the world changed.
A ritual, which became a practice, turned convenience,
And obscene, obtuse cylinders of black tar aped king rats,
Stook like monoliths where the mills rust.
Yet I placate my father's grave with calcite flowers,
Yet my grief is insufficient for I see it dissipate.
I am but missteps and false starts,
a captured stillness that records my ill intent.
Yet I lack the wherewithal to fail to yield to the palpable thrum.
It is extrinsic,
and dressed in surges of undifferentiated starlight,
I am asymptotic, and bifurcated in mnemonic flight,
and each point is plotted in baroque notation,
as plush woven sounds wash in the rippling coarse-grain of
Where phased space enacts a hallowing,
in between the lines
of porous stalks and motion begetting blooms.
Where slips in time--
Bring about only the hoary apocrypha of the Liffey Run,
Or the morning spent sleeping i
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