The Isthmus

time is not clean
while we are in it
afterwards is just a bone whistled clean
of fox of winter
bleached to shine
bleached for a shrine
it occurs inside
blown snow

we find the remnant stork or book
we find the remnant stroke or back
the body is a whistle     you blow darkness
on its holes
we whistle its darkness        a while
there is a refinement to bone
it is staying over somehow
we know it is doomed
but it is an amulet       angry

Today I lie with your brown faced night

and I felt so absorbed        deliciously trivial

it cinctured me like a belt
it was not a lover’s hands

fluttering hands

they are like unto cinnamon to its palate

when the apple is cut & browns instantly

and there is something tickling us      this way

as we go over

cinnamon to a palate

an apple       that shows its sex

tiny pips as in the game of fate

the cards


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