I stab my pen in to the earth
and it bleeds shinning ink.
the screenboards have bitter tastes to me, now, intertextually;
centuries of schooling conditioning
make literal chores out of sound;

innocence that bears the only mark of forgiveness,
however far away you are now, come,
your the only explanation
why we are so at odds;

I see the third coming straight forus—
a speeding horizon that crashes
into your hopes and dreams
and sends you flying with it, this thing inus,
the turning-yearning inside,
lining all the way through
most radical innervations of flesh and space,
celestial dances of angels,
old, like that coil, like that shaking spear,
o wild through the air, the child of a path:

and from your eyes light cheeks, bright,
he that ate from the sweetest he saw,
and found weight in a sword-word-world
and love in a shining page-stage-age—

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