That street and the side of you glinting
In light which neither
Shows nor ever will show
You your muscle, your own
Diamond face. It practices
A monument open in you, steep chamber of rock
That ’s becoming. Already the young sky undresses
Your body now clay, that more bendable
Fray in the either. Little but without
Throat walk down
The tender of this slab street or glow you can ’t
Own, not now, in the crumbled
Seen. It is not your fault, not your
Frame twitching open, it will close
The day soon and the dread roughly
Mounts. Climb littly upon it, though
It is low get up there
Crow, girl shoes coming off
The street in clouds, invisible
Songs where you ’ve been, legs where
You ’ve been and strong ankles
Don ’t break. Code-you taps out your blessing
On the world but stomp it
Too. Flame the dress into further gold
Still sharper. There is no
Way to approach a tree, don’t
Approach it. Girl string flipping
Out of you, you are turned back to blight
If you are quiet. Dust is the threat
Of being an outside
Girl and it smoothes. Your face can shine
The street you ’ll shine but also keep
Its water hard. Girl climb
The street as muscle thickens.
It is more than ribbon
To your lightwork.
In a mercenary way I am above you. Above and because
and below. The center of some endlessly outwarding
hollow becomes me, but stickily, until my hole grows larger
like a shot. There is no imperative like the present, the sign
our bodies make while making their moolah in mountains. In fact,
I have not forgotten the sun, or how an envelope
can seal shut as dry air. The way to woo me travels thusly,
from sky to swallow; from front to black; like an alphabet repeats
its stitches; like the pleat of wet night on my rack.
When your hand touches the bed.
Besides this there is yes the new day.
Anchor of paper unexisting, exiting.
There is the new grass beneath the storm.
The new face entering books.
Each one is a part of itself. Apartness.
A year further in is no answer.
Your back beside this is blank.
In this it is every color light.
Layers shining in the plenty their clear steps.
The window moved, which is not less.
Just body bartering its chapters.
From one, much fire, at least motion: such as that.
Even lines further their notch.
Your mouth turned from me and ended.
I cannot say magic for what I know.
David S. MacLean
