Midnight beyond thought
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(1 Jan. 2012)
I let you stroke the hour hand,
first gently and then bordering on disgust
as the last of the ticking sounds became
an incoherent logic.
What language is this?
you asked my closed eyes.
It is a new beginning,
I replied, remembering my place
inside you with my tongue at low tide
and the jealous moon tangled up
in its swollen lies.
I will never write like you and I hope you never write like me.
"...the only war that matters is the war against the imagination--all other wars are subsumed in it..." -Diane di Prima