Feb 12, 2014
I transformed into this thing, this beautiful
black howl: wolves & storms
of white trigonometries
& along my veins sailors’ flutes are singing.
Body caught by knowing,
like an inflamed throat, the immense
perception of knees.
This is the weapon: knowledge
with its hundred corridors,
its dark orange trees.
I stop at the edge of my breath
as if beside a door.
Nobody comes, nobody weeps.
How beautiful: indifference at midnight,
light falling mute over the blue trucks.
& when the time comes to die there will be
only this syllable, this tongue
that can no longer pass beyond its husk.
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February 12, 2014
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