406 Dream of Taipei
“…the mind has mountains. Cliffs of fall.”-Hopkins
:
rain like autumnal licking and the cold wind gallops down from the mountains as loosened earth
the divesting of the name your were once given
and still the old man sits at the bar at peace bowed over the end like a brass coin slowing its spin down
and the green rain spilling of verdant dreams.
We bare lives as light crushes us and cherries us toward a drown g love.
We survive,
all
Broke into a frame of the cocktail’s Edwardtime
And the ghost picking at the speakeasy’s rusted door window, a square heart
That ghost who understands aggregate love: our blooming genome
Picked apart and abloom.
His chrysolite hair lost amid the algae of the gutter from which the moon awakens as the clock round the bend of its homegoing.
And there, damp and lost, stood stood
You
:
