Friday, July 2, 2010

LSPWVT #2, Body poem #1

the small tracks of my days are now worn smooth,
as the tracks of water-shrews,
that work out once how to get somewhere
and never deviate.

for two years I've lived in my in-breath
and my out-breath
the space between one creation and the next,
a building made of elements, a city
or a circus, rich, exuberant.

In the mornings I taste the air and feel joy;
at night I sleep with the windows open.

All that, and I still self-dissect for you
pulling my nervous system out
its sparking wires and its high sound.
My bones are lattices that contain things;
my tendons and viscera knit me to myself.

What I want is for you to see this mechanical wholeness,
and under it my honest quiet.
But when I see you things happen in my cells,
in my actual brain: a mundanity of chemicals
ribbon themselves into my blood and I go off
like a flooded fuse box.

Later I just go running
leave the part of me that wants you behind
in a bet against myself--if I make this difficult enough
I'll just forget you.
When I get back everything is quiet and I collapse
like a grunting animal. It never works.

So welcome to the circus. This is my favorite act.
the bewildered beast is trying to walk the high wire.
I saved you a seat in my clavicle
and these ridiculous flags, my blunt palms.

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