Saturday, February 14, 2009

First Fig

i could devise
a myth of beforeness
of knowing and desire sitting
bare in the

I tore it open already

something in me tore it—
the same thing that walks back
to see again the wet peeled stomach
of the fawn beside the trail

tore it
then laid it
somewhat sorry in a 
white reflecting bowl

doubling back to the ruptured dead
its branchlike elbows
there is a way to hold your tongue

not to taste

but in my kitchen
the two halves in the bowl
give up their secret
smelling of wet stone
sing me a short song of
sucking the marrow out

don't doubt that what holds
us together like a
raindrop's skin
to be
black crepe
and cling to the teeth

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