1. |
An Aside
03:22
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2. |
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Eulogy From Before I Was Born
All the poets I want to kiss—to suck
their tongues of the words left wordless.
For I will roll them with my teeth
onto the page. Make a eulogy of
the lost poems from their forlorn wish. Close
the book on unwitnessed fancies of want
and need. Oh the sad joy we warrant as we break
off and discard unused portions of time.
The shards of light you see in my eyes
are not the moon—but a flood. I plunge
my hands into the guts of the poets
and knead their churning as the first bread
toughened them. As they need be softened
for the long distances yet to be written out
in a night dusty with all the crushed
stars. Where are the words I was promised?
The unforgiving space between them
where I sit and watch as from a hot corner
sipping my whiskey like a madwoman
about to be born again? My mouth
begs for the long and coarsely drawn
story—to chew upon its legs. If
there were eyes on all the poets’ lips
then that is where I want to be seen.
Nowhere but where the worst of it
can be found. Yes. I will write all of your
eulogies. They are all seated here
on my tongue. Propped up in my dark heart.
Its enfolded curves bent round all of your
lovelinesses. Mine has been already written—
was in place before I was born. Though
we cannot know how the years will move us—until.
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3. |
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Amongst Seeds Diminishing
How for once I’d made a fool of myself
you began to show me what I had been
looking for. Though I did not know
I had been hunting. How for once the white
hyacinths made their push up and through
my boots to split the sky between a winter’s
night and spring’s greedy wet lunge it was
I believe now—the last of cracked dishes. The last
of yellow yolks running beyond my hope. For me
it was how you said your ears are like a shell
and how I wanted to penetrate them in the backflow
of soft sounds you make when you are
leaning into the wide bodies of goats who know
it’s best to shift a balance between hooves. How for once
I’d made a circle ‘round your tender wrists
with my tongue I could see it was not the same
for you as it was for me. And I’d again make
a fool of myself for my sorrow left and still
diminishing amongst the seeds of cottonwood tendrils.
For once we know there is not an entire me inside
an entire you it is easier—still easier to let what’s wanted
go.
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4. |
Closed Systems
02:31
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5. |
New Feet
03:39
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New Feet
The shifting movement. Take it
between your fingers. Try
with a simplified desire
to grasp the fallen strand of
your lover’s hair before it lifts
into a spring breeze littered with finches.
Tell yourself everything is useless.
There now. Again. Because today
imported white roses blush from the center
and are skirted with green. The sifting
light. Take it between your eyes.
There is a way to tilt your head
to an incomplete sun. The offspring
of a touch of your pinkie finger
to your lower lip is. Wait. You will fall
again. A tumble of tumbles into
the beautiful scent of winter flesh warmed
by the first new tilt of light. Tilt of
that sweet head. Everyone has noticed.
They are all tilting their heads.
You have been less in these months prior
to an unclean patio noon and tea with
a scandal of cream. Fervor saunters out
amongst all these legs dangling with new
feet. Tell yourself about the furrow of
his throat where it rises again to meet
his chest. How you shall root there.
Because today a brassy sky is vulgar
with its demands and gives permission
to no one who begs a retreat back
into living without knowing.
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6. |
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How Unaffected the Delicate
Maybe the unaffected she says the dainty
way we love in plain sight. An assembly of
a feeling. Arrange me just so she tells him.
He is not listening just working just configuring
the backwards glance before giving in. Maybe
the motionless disturbances—she senses this.
I sense this she says. You’ve got all the time
now. He’s quietly assembling. This time
in the present time she’s harmless—the way
she loves in code—slips it past lips before he
can tell it’s a feeling. How unaffected the delicate.
Maybe you’re sorry she says. Maybe the
Where a woven set of arms and legs finds
a seam for the way of assembly is just so. I
can’t find a pull-string anywhere she says.
This time he listens to the sound of scraping
inside. Could be it’s all backwards—she tests
the idea of. He watches configures a way
for her arm to remain. You think I know the code.
He’s gently adding up steps from beginning to
Maybe the profound she says the convulsions
of code. He is aware of maybe. Maybe arrange me
just so she says. Find between my arms the word
for distant. How unaffected the skin can be
in a difficult world. You sense it. You have all the
She is not listening just moving—telling the way
maybe arouses. He’s softly arranging the distance
between a code and her shoulder blades. Could be
it’s all an interference of molecules shuffling. She
studies the air in the delicate way of how sorry.
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Jessica Rigney recommends:
Carrie & Lowell
by Sufjan Stevens
Breaks my heart wide open. Every single gorgeous track.
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