Wednesday, December 7, 2016

What You See Is But a Sample of the Secretary

The blood that lit this mind was raised on sugars
From the gut, oxygen from the fiery air,
But you will notice its lusts are incomplete.

The pulse comes from the relentlessness of sun
Dragging chains of local, artificial light
Through narrow corridors of zeros and ones,

And any pulse, by feigning repetition,
Making it seem as if moments could return,
Filters time by changing its pace, breaking it

Into edible pieces. The rest is waste,
Glorious, inevitable, howling waste,
The sluggishness of dusk, the cry in the mire

That divides the infinite into what's read,
The cloudy day's sudden shafts of misleading
Revelations, and what's left out, rotten nights.

A diary is to a life as fossils
Are to a species, and this you see, old friends,
Offers itself to you as type specimen.

Laugh if you like. Disdain if you like. You are
Courtiers of daylight, tall as trees, well-dressed.
The complete secretary will come later.

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