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Saturday, August 31, 2013

Insects Burning in the Night

Two dangerous wheels on the road,
a monotonous work, a cycle of
day and night vanquishing—
I am sitting here, a whistling hole,

finger-width, on my helmet, my only
connection to the night, to these
wings like hot air being anchored,
burn as the headlight approaches them.

(I closed my eyes
to see through the night the things,
these are the things,
that don't normally present themselves.)

My pen!
It is inside my bag, I could not reach.
Hurry. This fire will be gone in
onetwothreefourfivesixseven seconds -

I am an insect, a greenish insect
crawling on your back—
down,
down,

down—
like sweat flayed from a follicle
so young, so true
to the things it creates.

I am a fragment inside your follicle,
a fragment nipped from crude muse,
imbibing me by the look of stealthy,
reserved coquette.

To string them together,
the fragments, I am in no need
of a muse that is you,
of these wings that burn in the night.

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