June 10, 2008 at 6:56 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 11 Comments
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Beyond the light of the fire
spirits and riders pass followed and following
in a mad decadent parade
spinning gracious histories
like soft desert whirligig constellations.
With a heavy sigh he turns on his side
curls his arm round her waist
and buries his face in her hair.

In the absence of memory, of stability in time
the coarse mechanics of grammar collapse
into a scrapyard of conjunctions and gears,
verbs asking where Machiavelli went
with his velvet inducements to intent.
There sunonhead dreams of
Venetian palace intrigues
to be conducted like impossible waltzes.

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