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…how could I misplace this much poetry

…and    so we follow him through this turnstile-heartbeat
stitched to the train
in love
with each
mosaic tile

in the subway station
thinking about the possibility of murder and guilt and how these bodies are not his

these translations
these impossible shapes of neon

tongues treat us like strangers of course



this is our language
our only home and body and questions for later

naked on a rooftop
drinking her
wine and tricky neck
curved against a moon
behind some clouds



near a water tower    a lighthouse a skyscraper    a canyon of bones and rivers    and you tell me stories about ancient tribes that are extinct    wiped from history

how it’s possible to remove humans from this fragile fabric by castrating their alphabet    by slitting the throats of their gods and lying to their children

and I check my mouth for burns    for forest fires and muscle relaxers   
how one day    my words will be not as important as genocide…
Posted 08/20/12
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