I seek in your flesh the tracks of my lips . . .

I mumble a line that I want to be mine but it is Lorca’s
Are you still writing?
What made your art beautiful
what made me scrape each metaphor backwards
back into the notebooks that I call my best work

I think your name, afterward I mutter
I love you
It folds into the hum of a public bus squeezing through grey buildings
And I try to string soft words together but remember
that I have become someone you would not read
And every syllable is a filler vowel

Each metaphor redundant like: house,
like: body,
like: tree,
like: veins ,
like: gold
like: like

And I want to dream magically again
to anticipate the resonance of auras
as we sit feet from one another,
never touching
imagining that there are scriptures
beneath the third layer of skin
that we read by the precision of intuitions scalpel
that we read by the dim light of a damned god

But there are no more stanzas
Only flat prose
Stifled yawns

I seek in my flesh the tracks of your …
I borrow someone else madness

I edit six years of a belief in art
six hundred pages of attempts to get at the illusion
To get under the facade and stroke the unconscious
finger her gently until she’ll do my bidding

Finding only redundant metaphors
like: body
like: tree
like: veins
like: gold
like: like

I go back to witness playing games of hide and seek
folding truth into dull language
that cannot unlock, that obscures 
the sustained passion
of six years
of a belief in art

I rewrite each poem, side by side
using them the way I used yours once
scraping each phrase backwards
against another page
to scour again for meaning

Are you still writing

I seek in the flesh the tracks of you r

On a pins point my love is



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