Above a book of death
by the Romans, crucified &
Didn't react. Indiscretion
arbitrarily martyred bare---
It's the work of the weevil!
Months before spur'd out
& left stricken with weighty
pain, I pant to the divine for
meaning before the onslaught.
I bring it upon myself, unfurling
what scorched cheek pleads
& disturbs the pursued by
undesirable invention when
one grows out of the hole one
has been hammered into?
That Shadow we know is
clear enough for just one room,
entwined, a roof across the
golden dish of sky with her
eyesight of authority to make him
open his own for God, or
about the secrecy between
the tender poisoning of our
undoing & then the bird's
presence became vieux jeu---
flying away, leaving me with
incomplete sentences,
asking me to fill in the gaps
to learn what is writ, wit
written right: terrible mess
bends the autobiographical
against the emperor, say,
Diocletian's slanted face
leaning against backwards
History, time leaves everything
to a sob, de-natured pedigree
of unwanted attention. Vied
To announce my departure
in this City of Death! Deferred
to silence's goading,
heart's Content thinks itself as
blameless, circa early Spring,
I'm perennially swashbuckled,
my frozen frontier melting
between discretion; or, rather,
Some other suitor's feet. I,
Along the Quotidian, start
This vehicle that I think of as
an Ornate Vessel upon a wholly
Stormy Sea, strips the mizzenmast,
I stand facing my amputated
mirror's Gaze-back languor,
Twin-faced, Motor running,
knowing Reminiscence's Gothic
dream. I re-enter back into my
face again, who I am, an
invading tapeword signal
in this newest Farewell.
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