06 Jan




I want to be the noise that you accept, that you accomplish and omit, the one that drapes over you like a diary page, lighter than a silk; the hiss of air from your air-conditioner, planes flying overhead in Queens, light snoring from too much vodka in your seltzer, kit kat wrappers on my floor with the windows open. This is the tuning of the harp.


the lorn light washes over you
for the first time in weeks
and you don’t smile
you grin
it seems passive
but it’s savage breathing
life, go for the throat
the eyes see, vigilant and wild, awake
the first cup of tea
sea at the lips again
then you bathe
I wash your legs
and feel around your curvature
you’re getting clean, but I’m feeling dirty
not whiskey this time
just a good book and too much time alone
so I’m glad that you are here
delighted in ablution
like a wren lost in the pleasure of a birdbath
but every day is a different lighting…


This is the tuning of the harp.


back in the day,
when we were kids
we used to call it “truth”
no ya’ll say “facts”
aggressively, proud, as though demanding them
like when Jack says:
this moon spills blood when you walk down the wrong blocks
and this woman could be enough luminous madness to set it free
help me eat these spasmodic, worried nights with good reggies and soft blankets
and she’ll write over my words
and they’ll only get better
and it will grow and we will wander and this will mean something in the twinkle
twinkle, something small
that glimmers for a while and explains it all as it softly passes on
but guys, this is only the tuning
of the harp.
And every day is a different lighting.


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