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Literature Text
he could never read her
unless he was tracing
the ridges of her scars;
surrounded in darkness,
with incomplete senses-
she always reminds him
not to trust his eyes;
we are meant to feel
the words and reach
to grasp them, igniting
lighting connections
always one step closer
to comprehension-
she teaches him
the language of
skin- perfection
only means
there is nothing
for you to feel.
we were not born
to see color.
our first defenses;
our first adventures;
our first wounds
are articulated
in fingertips
and kneecaps
and a mess
of incomplete bones
we start out
brave enough
to learn to break.
he learns to read her
like his Tolstoy
and Faust; she is
collarbones of cynicism
and ribs of narratives
told in the structure
of triptychs,
and his cheeks learn
the rhythm of verse
from her overburdened
eyelashes: he says
his favorite part
is the defamiliarization
of knowing her best
with his vision blurred.
unless he was tracing
the ridges of her scars;
surrounded in darkness,
with incomplete senses-
she always reminds him
not to trust his eyes;
we are meant to feel
the words and reach
to grasp them, igniting
lighting connections
always one step closer
to comprehension-
she teaches him
the language of
skin- perfection
only means
there is nothing
for you to feel.
we were not born
to see color.
our first defenses;
our first adventures;
our first wounds
are articulated
in fingertips
and kneecaps
and a mess
of incomplete bones
we start out
brave enough
to learn to break.
he learns to read her
like his Tolstoy
and Faust; she is
collarbones of cynicism
and ribs of narratives
told in the structure
of triptychs,
and his cheeks learn
the rhythm of verse
from her overburdened
eyelashes: he says
his favorite part
is the defamiliarization
of knowing her best
with his vision blurred.
Literature
Parentheses
(I wonder if parentheses
ever see all the letters
caught in between them
and feel that distance
as though it is tangible;
if they ever crave
to be close enough together
so they could intertwine
until their inkscratches
collide to incoherence;
if you’ve ever noticed
how your right hand ellipses
and curves just like a parenthesis,
and how my left hand is its opposite.)
Literature
starting over.
i want
to cup my hands and catch
honey dripping from every
sunrise;
feed new days to the soil
and watch empires bloom,
coated sticky-sweet in
sunshine and
second chances.
Literature
the chemistry of softening
you adopt the melancholy tone,
memorize foreign anthems
vulnerability is a new medium to explore the separation
of voyeur and architect roiling the prefab primordial soup
lead on the eyelashes and glue on the sclera it is hard
to turn away
in five minutes leviathan will float up fully cooked
this is the flag of a self-proclaimed republic submitting
to the wind of isolation spitting left and right
it is to pull your enemy close
to you and turn the lights out after a polar night of fighting
it is to allow yourself to be hand-
cuffed to bed for a night on earth (you say,)
to understand the ene
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Oh my word, this is fantastic. Very well done