Saturday, November 17, 2012

Whirling Apollo or her body that lies

Whirling Apollo or her body that lies
on the maroon couch, the malleable truth
of a wandering rhetoric. I opened my mouth
to say her name, whatever it was, to fly

like the clouds above the rivers. I am my
own truth and her lie, she is ripening youth
assailing me. I know the light of faith
and the darkness of an argument. Her lingerie

is like the changing weather, I can't live
without irrational love. The birds that cry
in the distance, the love that sings and moves

the air. She's a wordless body, a little sigh
between articulations. I'm not in love
with anything but a light that never dies.

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