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The paradox of having a disease shape you and yet wanting to be rid of it |
She is not running from December She is a guest of August Geese honk like childrens horns or economic cars being a guest of children And the economy, neither of which hell ever gets to understand You see/ something about your disease made you beautiful/have you ever seen moonstone float to the surface of the epidermis?/ your mouth was like delicate red ropes through a tower of perfect ashes/ not a long destiny But a spark so perfect / I pray your memory into sun Bowl haircut bicycle pants barking like a dog through lecture/ that skin would make Vermeer laugh/ you’re a lantern fingernail luminous on Gods pinky/ you rush to the bathroom/ your lungs a fountain of sticky anti-youth/ never a complaint/ so brave So beautiful slender coughing chameleon 21 gone and phosphorus velvet hands If you had not been diseased you never would have been/how can I applaud suffering for its genius and its madness? Like the human race I guess I wanted to hold you while you died and tell you the little infarction of heart I put petal wise and unsoundly foolish Near the grave whose coordinates Blank me… |