long earth/warm hands/the ten day war

You have to understand I hate being this way: the anchor that holds half my head. I know the war. You know the war. But, still, to always rise to it, and let yourself swallow it, and loudly you are cut down. I ball my fists, remain a centaur. My want is more than violence. My need is to tremble in love.

(I think of the innumerous skies, and how crooked my skin lies, and the fly cutting its head against the passing glass, and the small texture of plastic grips. Your bones warp the stories, or the stories warp the wood.)

This is never finished.

I have to turn away, and stop. I've been looking far too low. I've been struck aside. I need to remember, and not for you. I know I won't ever have a voice like you. Mine is cast in vapors. Mine resists, in ugly glow.

I won't have structure.

(These insects called home.)




But light.

Goodness in tremors.

Wax anthem.

Stand louder.

Without flight, or throw.

The fool is

but light.