In
the Rosetta stone of your face
I
find the divet, the unexplained
and
inexplicable crater that
prevents
further translation
you
will not allow my fingers
and
shy away gripping
your
lips like a cat flicking
its
ears, tail lashing
I
have invaded you
now
a little to forget
the
gaping excavation
of
my self-cleaning sewer
from
which life surges forth
microscopic
and sweet
seizing
us by the throats and
dragging
us into the mines
from
whence these layers of dust
silt
over the everyday surface
dance
at my wedding
cry
at my funeral
be
on my team for
a
thousand years
come
prowl the range
with
your divet face
the
range of my
sunken
mountains
detritus
of self
the
valorizing alcohol
clears
the slide for micron managed
view
of the seas of agony
or
guilt inherited like tax
grandmother
was an orphan
all
the loneliness of paper
shuffled
around in cascading files
sticking
by me everywhere I live
don't
move it, leave it where it is
a
child's remembrance casting back
to
grandmother as ancient goddess
moving
the treadle and thread
so
have pity on the owners
of
these buildings and the dead
earth
under foundations fragile
over
the head
unable
resting internally the blue fight
resting
internally the blue fight
skims over morning altitudes
the
blue fight reveals an obscene
scar
down the face of the internal city
where
ghosts scour the benches of lingerers
raise
up their glasses full of tears
salty
the tears as they pump through the eyes
roll
down the throat to the collarbone
so
many tears from the internal city
blushing
and baffled the metallic taste
from
so much regret as the absence of loss
loss
of a loss how can one lament
such
a thing even if internal manhole
covers
sail off powered always by tears
and
rooftops shake with hairline fractures
I
need you to hold my hand now