Poetics

Treason

There is a bridge of residues
From our previous treasons,
Where the sun casts figures in the water
Of our communal bath,
Cannon balls in the air
Into that blue Saturday,
That blue estuary.

Have I told you about December?
No, like a child. Have I?

Arbitrary hands from the moon
A convalescence of mist,
A funk in the fingers
Playing an imaginary instrument. Wa!

I hear the saxophone wail in my sleep
All night it tugs at me
An old revival
The wineskins and magic carpets.
All night,
Nothing but our weeping.

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