THE
MARRIAGE OF TRUE MINDS
The question keeps reflecting on itself: when marriage comes to nothing, promises insist on some intensity, and so you wait. In this sweet constancy, there’s no more anger than a trivial delight. The lady gives the clerk his change and nothing more. She stands here by the bed in sullen majesty and is alone. Numerals begin their evolution, minutes move, but real achievement lies in lying still.
The vanity of joy in this cold jelly on your hands is colored like New England dawn, in guilt, anticipations of the past. For if we’re men and married, we understand remorse through sacrifice, contrition waiting there, where you have never been.
And in this way, fleeing me, you fill my last demand.
Your image is the image you propose, but now you forfeit night and feel disease along the margins of my private room. Someone pries your arms apart, revealing to the rest of us the value of the air. And he arrives in secret where aggression can’t recall these forms without repeated signs. All things exist, but none of them restrain the tedious sun today, and so consideration burns. In this, recall your thighs and anger, the yellow sores that run.
And so I waste our passion in its shadow, wanting mine to be some pleasure on the edge. I want to feel a casual remorse, not writing you, but custom, as you said, is never present in the dawn. And yet, dear lady, it is you who would not kiss.
In this, you are archaic speech itself, and even angels know where caged beasts dwell. And so upon demand, they tell me now. The snake, whose burrow is the cheek, slithers out along my tongue; I watch it find the sun.
The shore does nothing for the sand; nothing’s living there. We watch it with the intricate release we get from books and tell ourselves that sailors are allowed what we can never see. And yet the boys wait silently behind the silver glass. Who’s shattered now?
And this: not desiring what you most desire, you wash the walls, erase the images of rancor, spleen. But when they’re bleached, then memory’s a mirror, and mirrors without malice, angels say, are bliss.
So humor rises, becomes methodical with age, wiser than the minotaur I followed with your hands. The filaments of sunny afternoons could find you now, but you, at least the you I used to know, are locked in marble lands. I leave this room and find the blood is running through the sand. It is the god who takes us through the dead, and lets me kiss each face and find time measured everywhere.
Who’s to blame? I sometimes wish to feel the final ashes of your hair, but as it is, in my New England way, I place these lips in stone, and, bargaining with mirrors for their skin, I reconstruct your ecstacy, alone.
The question keeps reflecting on itself: when marriage comes to nothing, promises insist on some intensity, and so you wait. In this sweet constancy, there’s no more anger than a trivial delight. The lady gives the clerk his change and nothing more. She stands here by the bed in sullen majesty and is alone. Numerals begin their evolution, minutes move, but real achievement lies in lying still.
The vanity of joy in this cold jelly on your hands is colored like New England dawn, in guilt, anticipations of the past. For if we’re men and married, we understand remorse through sacrifice, contrition waiting there, where you have never been.
And in this way, fleeing me, you fill my last demand.
Your image is the image you propose, but now you forfeit night and feel disease along the margins of my private room. Someone pries your arms apart, revealing to the rest of us the value of the air. And he arrives in secret where aggression can’t recall these forms without repeated signs. All things exist, but none of them restrain the tedious sun today, and so consideration burns. In this, recall your thighs and anger, the yellow sores that run.
And so I waste our passion in its shadow, wanting mine to be some pleasure on the edge. I want to feel a casual remorse, not writing you, but custom, as you said, is never present in the dawn. And yet, dear lady, it is you who would not kiss.
In this, you are archaic speech itself, and even angels know where caged beasts dwell. And so upon demand, they tell me now. The snake, whose burrow is the cheek, slithers out along my tongue; I watch it find the sun.
The shore does nothing for the sand; nothing’s living there. We watch it with the intricate release we get from books and tell ourselves that sailors are allowed what we can never see. And yet the boys wait silently behind the silver glass. Who’s shattered now?
And this: not desiring what you most desire, you wash the walls, erase the images of rancor, spleen. But when they’re bleached, then memory’s a mirror, and mirrors without malice, angels say, are bliss.
So humor rises, becomes methodical with age, wiser than the minotaur I followed with your hands. The filaments of sunny afternoons could find you now, but you, at least the you I used to know, are locked in marble lands. I leave this room and find the blood is running through the sand. It is the god who takes us through the dead, and lets me kiss each face and find time measured everywhere.
Who’s to blame? I sometimes wish to feel the final ashes of your hair, but as it is, in my New England way, I place these lips in stone, and, bargaining with mirrors for their skin, I reconstruct your ecstacy, alone.