Wednesday, September 5, 2012

all this fecund magic

I speak the spell of no forgiveness, I loose the breath I took from you. These narrow halls, these apparitions. Plate glass windows and eyes like tombs. Words condense as if on a mirror in a shower. Slick impressions left shining in the gray. I keep this pace in place of ghosts, my tongue dull and slow. I keep this pace beneath the surface, where the writing meets the way. The venom of this lack of charm, never more subtle than failing every strength. Palms pressed to bear the burden. Words burning out little fires in the rain.

Memory eventually steals away the story. The mind shifts away from the heat and the light. We slip into our earnest verses, we slide along each lie. Light condenses against the blinds, painting out a drag and draw. In justice we strive to show each flaw, every sin striped and chained. In clemency we forgive ourselves our blemishes and brawls, our reasons always angel winged. The least crime begun with when the alibi arrives. So starts each seduction, remembering what we please. 

I wrote it down first to bend the tension. As if time would abide by the music. As if the declaration was any less because the seams are so hard to see. Then it was the habit held to wear down the adhesion of the order. The blunt incantations stone, cement, and bone. The brickwork winds down into suggestion. That furtive glance, that vacant  ache cinched on a bit too tight. The romance told in florid third person so every angle gleams. The light collides inside my eyes, spilling spark and wish. Pressed against a photograph, all this fecund magic.

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