By Richard Mather
French horns, the length of METAPHORS, playing in the dark
And I am still thinking
We ask her what she thinks as she lies in dead leaves, concealed
Still-life, still-born
Like a forgetful river, I abandon my paintings, my AfricAN name
And then I slide out my knife and stick it deep into silence, declare war on the body of love, turn the corner in Brooklyn
I guess
I am watching, she is dreaming, there is a distance, a distant laughing where the darkness edges up her skirt
Incapable, in the garden, so MANY lights, so MANY Vietnams, so MANY clouds with dark underbellies
This is not a joke it’s real
During the depression he waited for a farce and he is still waiting, waiting to be desired by the body of his desired one and he is still waiting, as we are all still waiting
Is there a message or can I go back to sleep? O VOY-AGER
& Jesus
Miracles and binoculars are all that matters, like the French horns and long metaphors.
And I am still thinking, thinking, thinking.
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