niqab

the gift of women, then, in a
sort of heaven:

• humans don't so much shatter
  as come apart.

• "they don't love their children."

• daughters, now, receiving
  the send off, not coming home in
  boxes, not enough to be
  found,

• sentries. walkers that go
  any where, watchers that
  suspend in black a motif of eyes.
  

what do they offer them for that?

within the shroud, a shroud. an eye.
within the shroud a ticking heat.

(You assemble a percussive beat, which
is not the heart's beat, but rushes in
the blood all the same)

last entries, part one

from some notebook a year or so ago.

__________________________

You do not think these things. You
Unthink. Hands' fingers follow
Gravity; hands on knees draw the
Line of the eye you cannot
Look away from.

You begin to envy -
"who then can love" - Rilke.

But hypocrisies - Catullus
Lied and you caught the
Disc of it years too late -

Only the alone can truly know
The tremble of field before plow -

At the edge you are, the field's
Edge, the flower-falling edge.

Having the lesser of it.

The last night's night spent gritting your teeth.

A glint of smile. Something
about his mouth around his smile captivated you. You
looked longer.

Outside wind makes motion sinusoidal, rippling the
structure of things.

He in his house. You on your side.

a secret! don't tell:
a serendipity.

No wonder someone was able to fall in love with the word.
It falls from your mouth like edict.

The life of your words when you aren't speaking them.
What deeds you do when you don't pay mind.

He extended his key
and it turned the lock
and fit the lock of a place
90 miles further away.

(That is what you learned today from the paper's wedding announcement.)

9 years ago, you are waking up unaccustomedly early to watch the news
and you see dust fall from buildings in advent of war.
9 years later, the man takes your shoulders in between his palms to contain you.

Later, still.
Someone else notices with precision your sad demeanour.
'Don't pick up the glass,' you say, as he comes silently to your aid.

'I like to do that.'

And nothing.

And nothing.

series of shorts

I am writing again. Or actually, posting newish things that I would like to see outside of notebook-scrawled-handwriting format.

Mostly garbage. Apologies in advance.

still life:

Winter.
Bright.

In the late evening, I sat propped,
sad statue,
tilting my head so the refuse of water ran, evaporatingly
in whorls.
Spoke to my self the whole night --

Measured the fall of snow.

Remembered to unarm anger
(I taught him what he knows,
the several-atoms-thin facing of me.)

Inward movement impossible.
We spected, politely, on outsides.


I tried to lower myself out of love with the same ease.
Drank and thought to appeal to him, dear object.

Revised standards:
broke through the old anger like puncturing a skin.