The Magus, image by Daniel Y. Harris
from To Myself, You Listen
Timid the
leaf in you.
Hero,
the wind from you.
An hour,
the crow among you.
With praise you
hold in hand what
promises color and rotating
images, and like the praise
each eye gives to the understanding
of heat’s body you
untangle these memories
an anniversary of practiced
ritual
—you visit what scares scars
what
reminds through cicatrice and
sedentary healing
—you space evenly your reaction to
warmth,
how its body is both here and
negative in appearance
—such
is the spine and its youth, its
strength absconds
as does the father’s holding you
the strength crawling from the
curved arm
through the fever of swollen finger
-tips and you
preserve the song
long enough to swell
from the tongue’s variation
of pitch and unperfected lyric.
Version
1
No
Name
Hear it. This.
Remain when
the blend of you. You spill
the throat
throws you, an
of circumference representing age and the
philosophy of trauma.
The head hears you.
This momentum
cannot praise. You.
Beneath these
blankets
two shadows braid
breathing patterns
fire to blame then
a sequence of spit
splays anatomies and the creator confines as to scold as to
teach as to
evict through faith’s
unlocked devotion toward why you. Never.
Home:
from the Window Entering
Prose, this, glass of stained green
gold
obfuscation of hybrids. These syllables
wear you, skin
of hallucinating
M
u
t
a
t
e: need yourself. Collate:
cure
yourself. Untie
what unites rearrange
to confuse
normality’s structural
hands, their holding you
mimics a fist of geese navigating
to escape this cold and condescending
absence of food. Unwind,
rest,
relocate, press your breath
into the sun
of this room’s
achromatic climate.
