Author Information
Eve
A minimal serenade for
the hand of hands:
take my caustic small talk and
burn it down
you could shed conversation like skin
like peeling potatoes and you'll find the
answer clear as ghost white texture
I found your brain on the side of a wall
I found your legs in a convenient store bathroom
I can't breathe much deeper
so if you can't hear me then something
has murdered your ears deaf
The years are printed in your hair,
soft and styled
i could almost touch
but i dare not, Eve
yes, in your mosiac, where you taste the fruit and
I leave myself to suffer
another hope cut, stopped
by your mouth
There are not just teeth and tongue and jaw
there is a future, an audience
Dance, dance I say to this stupid, soiled non-song
And I will hold your drunken body against
the solid foundation and
tell you
I have prized you.
like a medal.
shelf and dust. next to the things
that mattered most
You could shed love in its simplest form.
And if you did, you'd find love in its most aching moment.
the moment of destitution
like the flames in California
We could eat the history like fruit, Eve
Eat until the whole of it was carcassed and rotten
But the epitomy of it all
will always be written
in muffled form
Break the code.
