Paraphernalia
Upon me I hear the sailing ships of the last brigade. Not forever now this winging tongue, this jewel of the nest egg. How it frightens the shapes of sentimental brows and casts its tremors into waves of left hands. I stop paraphernalia from sliding down the back of my shirt. I hold a key to my ear. Not forever now some grassy envelope laying unopened on an anthill. An index finger smells like the orifice of a fallen star—I name it after a desert moth. Pleasing and toothy, there is a clanging in the softlight. Only after a fraternising in the meadow of sleep can the eye slick back its hair and turn over on its ferment. Because crosshairs have confessed they are nothing but dried-out wrists, I have learned to peel the blood from the vein. The haranguing of the heart knows what it wants with silver remains before the beauty of a chin is found beneath the skirts of unmade beds. I wait not forever now. Not once in the clouding eyelashes of my fantasies.
