Poem: Lunar Throat

Seattle.

 

It doesn’t hurt

to imagine

these races

landscapes

bulldozed

and mown

later

before grass

died

later still

and a moon

the rising

proclamation:

stay away.

 

The land

scraping

sacred

its oiled holes

containing fragments.

 

What’s lost

isn’t.

What’s down there’s

down there.

 

“There’s no memory.”

“We’re no memory.”

“We’re with nothing.”

And so.

Go slow.

Go on.

 

Solid.

The whispers

merged whispers

documents screaming.

Documenting

screaming.

 

Fecund

slash.

 

Shirt strip.

The language

embroidered.

The moon

agrowl.

Where’d it go?

Stay away.

 

This poem borrows from “Too Much Love” by LCD Soundsystem.

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