Something always
refuses. This is

the solitary hour.
Something makes 

a cloth of the moon
and wears its shroud.

And someone carries
the memory of a lover

in the broken-back
cold. And if always

we imagine experience
as the brutal chord,

we sit before
this window and study

the forensics of the sky.
I was born, we say.

As we retain
hidden in our mouths

one small piece
of God’s tongue


Related Articles


{{relArticle.author}} - {{relArticle.pub_date | date : 'MMMM dd, yyyy'}} {{relArticle.author}} - {{relArticle.pub_date | date : 'MMMM dd, yyyy'}}
{{article.Topic.Topic}} {{article.Topic.Topic}}