Sam Witt

                                                      To become the child of one o'clock.
                ( Their movement of orphanorphanorphan )
      Just to the left of this place where I barely move, slave & children to its sadness
               ( With my trail of molluskular zeroes lain across Buddha's cheeks )
                                                                      We are here only to be born
                                   I mouth an unborn dampth—
Opening into the midday air father, fava
                                                           So much as believe in sight,
      Looked through me then into this place where I do not exist
                      Looking through the silk wrappings of my eyes!
                                                                                  And there I was, all this time

                             Enter, suffer, cross over, at a wet fingertip.
                                                                I leave myself behind to enter the body of one o'clock.

      The tracks they've left, black muscular tears.
                                                      Where I insufficiantly, inadequately suffer—
    2 minutes from this space
                                       But simply apart from me, simply looking with my eyes
Of tongues, licking a small sugarskull not centuries from here,
        Into a slow motion of antennae,
                                                                                                       The decay of the fathers: decays
                                                   Risen into their deepest decay:
        Across pinkish, fleamarket stone,
                    For their caress of a few small dead children to open from another place
                                I stand at zero unended in a city of the rich without graveyards.
Through my feet, down into fleshwater, pulled back through a wet valve of breathing.
                                                             I am drained
                     Sleeps beneath this pavement undrained pleasewhere
                                  Barely move their sexual stirring
        El Lago de Dolores they called it sleeps once more below.
                                               The wet fingertips of young girls are barely moving.

                                       And here now they move in the terminal hour of our rest!
              And there I was, all this time, looking for the ultimate moment!

                        Suffering, to be, to be—
Of not, of not
                                     I cay in the wrecked sunshone, these two moments
                I suffer, I do not suffer at a touch,
                       Juiced shadowrise, & sunsweetened,
         Slow movements gathered here, left one for one,
                                                                              Left behind in the shell of this daylight
         & do reach out to brush an antenna, with a finger, a wet stirring
                    Many splayed, dark grey lips I can't touch in their shells.
Snails have clustered on the stone cheeks of Siddhartha,
                                                        At one o'clock, I leave myself behind in a garden.

Thermal Signatures



Thermal Signatures (#2)

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