Saturday, April 23, 2005

The Succulent Dark of My Fading Time

Sweet or savory follows the same post-road toward Dr. Johnson ill-fed on Skye. Watery remains the history of a mainland. From ore to Ore-Ida every scarred vein. To say she hung the moon means a dark-lantern shuttering my chest. Will you survey the one-for-one map of me? Some phantom limbs say bannister, double-eagle, cartwheel—the right to coin's constitutional. Firm fleshed, ill-favored, fish 'n chips. Closer to Britain's split ends on an inflatable globe, we strut and fret the parallels. Marching headward, zestward. A story of constituencies married unawares. Judicial tyranny names a saltwater shack. I'm fretted by lines incunabular, by defunct technologies of yearning run ragged on the right. Minister's bed. Tories are lovable like the reason for the Great Wall. Like the Age of Reason knits a sampler. I'm an old rememberer of others' sublime. I'm a misnamed moor in whiteface facing down Heathcliff's tears. We are none of us natives though now we're paid to die. Manors born. Silent fly.

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