An illegal name

Let’s admit it, what I sow
dirty-handed and doubly-fingered
doesn’t grow to the sun, it
instead hisses at it and hides
at my neck while the pitchforks sharpen.
A crease, dead in a crease
like the desire that haunts me,
like something buried prematurely
that is not deceased, would prefer to be
but that gentle pulse still beats,
and thinking on joy I breathe
dousing for it, it too in the ground
buried earlier in cooler streams
than what I tread on now
as a handful watch this sofa move
on its tireless legs, the legs
that stand and bend as I enter the dead who
come here, have code-words, came here at night
when a soul can correct its pitch
back into right, where man is crime,
attention trance, and tragedy romance.


~ by Jeremy on January 9, 2011.

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