want

i.

there is the thing itself
there is the failure to describe it
and there is the beauty involved
in crafting that failure

into a graceful dance
in a graceless chaos of space
enveloping the thing
the words, the sublimation

of suppressed desires
they coalesce into a whole
which becomes the new thing
and so on

the story goes
useful only in its newness
bleeding through the page
into the gauze I thought I'd escaped


ii.
I will bury you
a fountain of youth
and fragment into all of us
searching to find it

I have forgotten how to sense
I have need for your observations
beliefs and worship, blindly
mirroring down my sterling

forgetfulness, sinners baptized
in ink, flushed of preconceptions
dreaming a foreign love
extricated from the lotus blossom

bathing in death
we don't want to leave
I have room for you
in my cage