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You color all. Is this longing?
Or private. Is it private to speak
in the morning, the birdsong
like knives? We sit on this bench
while this wind swirls and billows.
This setting is love, yet we sit on
this bench, yet we listen to birdsong.
This color, your brain, which is bluer
than water. I touch it, your brain,
which is cooler than water. I wonder,
your brain, when it falters will it be
so cold? We buffet one another
with our bodies, with our slackened
hearts. I put myself in it, your body,
which aches. I put myself in it, your
brain, which is cooler than water.
In that other place,
a calm water
The culprits were
Intent on getting through
I came upon a harbinger,
rotted goat, floating
In this allegory, we are here,
I saw in morning light a sex
The gulls were pressed
the waves, across the blue
Stretched taut like this drum,
like this sail, focused
this eye of a lizard. On the
the white, liminal edge of
edge of the sea-squall,
Is the flanged brain more
I wonder when I find a line, do I
pick it up?
There are jumps in the mind,
we use to escape these small
But what if the fires are too big,
and like children,
we hide from ourselves? What if
we put down
our thoughts in perfect ladderings,
climbs them but for dull ideas?
It is simply a matter of syntax.
ÏIÓ ÏloveÓ Ïyou.Ó It is simply a matter
of order. The simplest words work
the best for the complex emotions:
ÏLove.Ó ÏGone.Ó ÏLoss.Ó It is morning
and we lie here on this clean, white, pleated
double bed. We are waiting for the sunrise
to unmask us of our sleep. It is lyrical
to dream like this. We ones who climb
like primates up through sleep at night
to dream of light. I dream of you. Black suitor,
gone, like sleep. Like vapid, nothing dreams.
At night these objects take on cast of shadow,
yet we sleep. At night we feel this nothing-new,
this tongue-loll, this exigent sinew, and
I think we must deceive ourselves.
The Epithet Epic
Their thoughts are entirely immersed in resolution.
He resolves to consecrate it with a tree.
He opens his eyes and he finds a place fitting to planting.
It is early in the morning. When he comes he is ethical.
He will remember it. He will give it the epithet epic and leave it.
Where is he?
In the country there are two of them.
Standing immersed in the shadow of love.
Of his motives, he says they are pure.
Of the heavy silence, she thinks it is part of the trueness of their love.
In the winter his motives are altered by a storm.
The two of them purchase a knife.
The blade of it is long and thin.
He commands her to speak in direct discourse.
He indicates that he wants her to express her thoughts concisely and with precision.
He finds this romantic.
They are in the country and her bodice has been cut with the knife.
Part of it hangs off her shoulder. In the distance she hears the sound of a gunshot.
Their speech no longer serves them adequately.
He walks toward her, feels her breast.
He places his lips on hers. Pulls her down. Puts his hand far up her skirt and she sighs for him.
Their skin is taut, bumpy.
He is no longer in a predicament.
She tilts her head back and moans. She lilts her voice slightly and asks him if he loves her.
He does love her. He feels a very true love for her.
He is then quite unable to continue. He is breathing too heavily and doesnÌt want to be speaking anymore.
She is also breathing heavily.
They come. They are happy.
I think of your face and of its deepest bewilderment.
It makes me sad as if the morning
were a tower or pair
of themÛhaunted and pure,
degenerate, elevated, strange of view
Katy Lederer is the author of three books of poems and a family memoir. Her poems, essays, and reviews have appeared most recently in Train, Bomb Cyclone, the New York Times, The Recluse, and on n+1 online, where she writes regularly about energy and climate change. Her fourth poetry book, The Engineers, is forthcoming on Solid Objects Press.
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