:::::::::::::::::::::::::CAMILLE MARTIN

cento: the love that I would bring

the love that I would bring would not be

something I remember having read.

the best you might do is take it

 

longingly enough to recreate

an expression of grief and not want to write

the corrections, lofty as a change of rein

 

in denial, or dissemblance—

that would break me up forever.

it’s on the map—a matter

 

of all things affecting my heart.

for you are my first born,

premature, unprotected,

 

struggling to set yourself free

of all the scenery that has culminated

into itself, like memory’s art

 

has eluded me till the present,

hidden in irritation’s neglect.

as the mind sows the seeds of distance

 

an optimism brims with purpose

to bear a denial toward someone

playing the last hand of a card game.

 

so these sorrows pronounce themselves

because the blood continues to pump

peering through our own skin

 

and the shield of our voices.

I remember the name of one color

that is, what you bring to it,

 

the way interruptions collide,

the serenity of one over the other,

because of the brand of criminal

 

torsions scratching at qualities,

like a distant jackal beneath uncertain moons.

this heritage where my miters don’t meet—

 

it occurs somewhere off the page,

and even though we don’t talk of it

under a steady barrage of dead signs,

 

we feel ourselves turning against

our words when our sleeves touch

in a state of careless grace.

from “ the arterials”

 

 




 



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