distance.

December 8, 2013 § Leave a comment

the new world- not where love came to die

and neruda is unpacked like june cotton

seasonally, objectively, emptily

 

there is nothing beyond the pleasure

of a heartbeat skipping over itself in the old world before time

shaped us to its will, and took our will to love-

 

there is nothing beyond the exile of quick and brittle

nostalgie HaLevi

two homeward migrations outside the need to be watered-

 

there, promises

 

like quicksand steal the very earth from under you

it was not yours to pay for with blood but stains- stains

remain to disprove time’s hunger for passing, over

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