// Run //

I used to know the way of holding fast
to the rings
around your circle eyes
but now it is too dark to see
the headlamps made of the bones of my
mistresses, they brought in
in tomes.
My cry is a mouth which cannot breathe.
The green on the walls
makes me forget where I am:
tired and sick of mentioning the walls
without climbing them
why write them down
at all.
Breaks in the fingers, breaks in the speech,
breaks in the little skins
scratching at me.
Maybe I’m too strong.
Maybe I am very confused
by the bird songs I have read on your
tomb.
The riotous sun rages up along the graveyards
jutting through the oceans
in my chest.
Lovers made fools of the stones they threw in.
You and I and art and death
we are all here headless in this punctured
life raft bed.
The words come faster than I can catch them
how cruel their kindness, how ugly
we are bred.
I have been through much worse than you
but the last thing I want is to get
through you now.
You do not ask me to be of service.
You do not place me behind twelve doors.
You do not light matches with the flames, blessed be thy forked tongue.
This is the colour of anger
this is the fingerprint of the song of demons,
this is the way we eat our own teeth,
cut our own breast,
touch our own weakness,
hallowed be thy name
hallowed be thy frantic recalculation.
Take these books from around my
wrists,
take this bandage from around my neck.
Remember how to sing for me
the way it was.
Remember the things I will not ever forget.
They do not know the darkness hides itself.
They do not know it is the heart
of the light.
They do not know the way it
hurts.

.

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