May 19, 2011
The clockboiling days
sunfell to ashes under my redder mouth
skin flaked, oil-think
sweet lotion all over, sludging the
second hand, third hand
darklong all in the hot,
too hot.
Sung through an open throat
timescorching voice.
The minutes are melting
into wet; my blue lashes
underwater yelling in
the summer-shudder pool.
Remember it, the loving
every sweating instant
of that dark music-
-gold season
the flat we never slept in
and the shadows that found
our ragged saucony steps.
Cool umbrellajuice, fourth-hand snatches
when the green sun breathed,
(cool fingers
staining the soda-tin)
slower in the hot,
hot as the sun
trims the skyscrapers fine.
Brass mournful while
the fifth sky burns up, and
the tar waxes black.

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