Saturday, December 6, 2014

The Interior

I am cold inside, but I am a forgiving man.
Fog and darkness move away from the reluctant cliffs.
Language meant to help us find a way, communicants
Caught in webbing language made, has lost inflections bred
For the bones that wished to sing through their meandering.
Tighten belts and dream impossible recoveries.
Heat will find us, even colder than the moon conceives
Darkness on her starry face, that which we call the pearl,
Turning midnight, built, irrelevantly, by the sun
Falling into place in milky near-imaginings,
Backboned night's relinquishing assertions to a truth
Battered by the million-starred, the apparitions lost,
Found in minds whose sinking, nightly, will again pretend.

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