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[I have a friend. My friend is a sky.]  I have a friend. My friend is a sky. There are dark, starved places that donothing but blur and spend, and the quick sharp blue-black lightning streaks called punish. If you wish to do what is known only as "to rest," "to sleep," "to live," you and my friend will have nothing to speak of. He says, Girls fall through holes, occasionally on purpose. He says, Manyshapes of web make the rope that will stay you. He says, A bitter metal forms the bit that slits your tongue. When they ask, What is your friend, that you ash and azure for him? I
singboxless wind in a blanched meadow, scree and scrawl. It is not because doors keep the light out, or doom is mortal. It is not because dawn calls weather, wander, weigh. If words are wire and can whip him, this is the scar. |