september 20. 2009.

ever since first you wrote
to me, i could sense the twine-
ing of our geographies, and

i was called up on my hands
(your bruised knees) to speak of gymnasts and
the dance.,
(we twist, oh)
of old men, alone men
(they dance, oh)
near their mirrors,

before they lay down, alone (men)
by their clothes
before the smoke from the pyres
suffocates

those old-song-men.

Now you wait by oceans (where first the fire leapt from the
earth)
looking past those broken shards
of pottery (just another language you never learned)
that collect in corners of dusty places that
you've bought your way into,
paid your admit-tion...

wondering..

what i was doing there?

just rattling my chains, i guess.