I play everything backwards
to see how it will be next time,
such a textbook.
All
is
suddenly quiet: this legend
has only one knife,
the wind
is
nothing to me,
it flies in no direction
like a thousand crows,
trips
me in my flight of nightness.
Do you want the bones
beneath my eyelid?
I'm late now.
I'm free of that little bit of sunshine.
She has killed me with one cold glance.
I sit back now
&
wait
for an explosion of larks,
but nothing comes.
Some terrible venom in a stare,
I wish I had one.
Not even hot coals
to
carry
with me
as I watch the last moth leave.
I existed in the wrong hour of dawn,
that kind of beauty
so no miles from anything.
In a drunken moment years ago
the hero would be me,
effervescent, welcoming a rattled polkadot
of snow, instead of just sitting here
nervously, twisting a casual wink
into this, in a ditch computing
the future, the dust
&
the whiteness.
I feel a morbid desire for music.
It
comes to zero,
