Poem: Full Circle.


Through ripples of endearment,
our lamps glow in broken circles,
yet, full circle we’ve come to this
wondrous horrible place, where the ocean
has no floor, hell has no bowels
and the sky has no frieze—
This place as soft as a soul—this empty paradise,
this purgatory of remorse;
where sit no arcs of finite fire
where from time to time, our love is
like tarp, a tent pitched in the Sahara of compromise.
And when the wind walks between the mist of
your sighs, and the
tarp starts to quiver from rasp to rasp
it’s like a joint dovetailing on its own weight
and when it finally buckles—
It becomes a fork lift:

The fork lift that is your apparatus,
something you use to shovel the promises into
the inventory of abandoned gestures
and the gestures stacked upon each other grow
into balance likened to the wind courting the trumpeter
And this is my saxophone—
this resolve, this ambivalence
and I blow it—
And the songs come and go
settling between us,
between the need of us
like filter.
And when the distillation boils down
the test-tube of time,
this love;
Redeem-less, like a dragon eating its own tail,
will claim our everything.


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