Thursday, January 24, 2008

diane ward yay


My arms are given
clean away, heaven forgiven.

I live in arms, touched
by sentence, treble up, sentence.

Reaching out across the states,
statements, clear mess of states.

If my fingers were longer, if central,
south, north, if we.

Set free a fortune by taking up
arms, each man must, each woman ...

Purge us of touch, including you,
the weight of emotion above.

I see my feet: footsteps; arms:
touched by delivery, destination.

I suppose I love that too, and you
in a formal setting, deep-heating.

And where, apart from us, motioning
away from us, gesture, come here.

It's gone. They were my arms-
reach within my arms-length.

It's not an airplane, not a part
of me. The motion, not the ocean, comprehended.

This is absolutely untrue. Within
my arms I have. I don't have you.

from Relation


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