Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Meditations on two titles I wish I had come up with

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Visions come
of breath applied to form –
swarm soft towards night –
warm, light –

what is left
into a mist, eviscerating
into something blessed,

the best phantasmal death –
the dust – at last –
of that disintegrating figure
of the man you never knew

if you had wanted
or had wanted to become –
blown mercifully into

suture, tendon, bone
atomizing: future, past
drying up,
numb as ash.


The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner

to the dawn.
Long gone.


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