Monday, June 11, 2007

Dying Not

Marrying Time.

Your love is all tied up in a knot. You know what love is not. You know what love is silently for you. You heard love in the branches of the oak tree. It was a bird living in fear of the ground, where the cat walks. The songbird gets its seed from the feeder. The rose bush flares blooming after lying about dying winters ago. You read the poems of dead women. He gives you poems by living men. Dying is for animals. Living is for hens.

There was no tall man; there were only other men in their own skin. The walker attracted my inner eye; I would try like him. I would walk to his house. By the sea to his knee. I would crot.

Beginner's luck in looking well, fair.

Hell for disjointedness, for holing friends, golf.

In one instant, oil frees flowing, boot tears.

So marry, then.

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