Saturday, February 24

the dust

with a shearing of silver, you wake.
with a sheer clearing of silver, you pale blush
and take off your tragic. with a magical hush
bent over the bowl, spill out one sick soul
then flush

i have dreamt of our secret spread over the lawn:
in the dawning hours, the grass still jeweled with dew
i have seen me, expelling
my last hours with you
as a ticking wristwatch:
all things come anew

the purpose of purging is not to soothe;
i found a souveneir, a tiny moon-
i think, my dear, it will be soon
you'll take your box
you'll pack your things and move;

how can you take those heavy lands
of dry dust?
all over your knees, and your good black coat
the red dust
rubs into your skin, in your fingertips,
and you rust

how can you take those heavy lands
of slow pain,
where the sun strikes you daily
and it never rains?
not i, no not i
i'd go insane

oh threshing angel
purge me, purge me of this:
prepare me for the seasonless place
the blank abyss

where there is no true sadness,
and no true bliss

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