Speaking of love, do you expose a nerve,
a root, in the tongue itself, the tongue itself
as root or nerve exposed on the butcher's block?
The soul in its dissolving capsule, your love's
body's adornment of gesture and composure -
what leaks out through the hole in her winter
layers, that vital expenditure - is that your breath's
warmth lost in purling steam before your eyes?
Love gets and stays caught in hostilities that
are like the air's conduits in that they are endless,
aimless, statistically reducible. Atrocities,
shittiness, on all sides. Speaking of the love
in burly or dissolving conduits, the vital
tongue leaking into the block, adorn yourself.
* * *
Patron poet of this sequence so far is J. H. Prynne, although you probably
wouldn't guess.
- Dom
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