Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Not Enough Energy or Imagination to Finish This Tonight

Gotta find out just why
there comes up out of the gut the whole of it
in a great mess, the black and slime
and unholdable masses, what
can’t just be held back or in, and

Gotta find out just why
the body is oiled by gritty
filled with hoarded bits of sand
and twigs broken off once-live branches,
all of it knitting itself into a moist and stringy web
catching all these things

I just can’t lose. Busted

bellies of each guitar, there is
no music to them, but their strings
swing into it. Maybe only hope
holds their music together or the breathing
of the wind pushing from the east

where snow comes from and we

pull back from. Can’t live through
the history of the Atlantic anymore.
Need something drained of history,
something unknown and wretched,
my neck cracks when I turn to see it,
moving west to where the sun goes black.

Seems

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