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Birds Hover the Trampled Field
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Richard Siken
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I saw them hiding in the yellow field, crouching low in the vanished dark. I followed them pretending they were me because they were. I wanted to explain myself to myself in an understandable way. I gave shape to my fears and made excuses. I varied my velocities, watched myselves sleep. Something's not right about what I'm doing but I'm still doing it-- living in the worst parts, ruining myself. My inner life is a sheet of black glass. If I fell through the floor I would keep falling. The enormity of my desire disgusts me. I kissed my mouth, it was no longer a mouth. I threw a spear at my head, I didn't have a head. Fox. At the throat of. The territory is more complex that I supposed. What does a body of knowledge look like? A body, any body. Look away but I'm still there. Birds flying but I'm still there, lurk there. Not just one of me but multitudes in the hayfield. Want someone to chase you? Run. Take a body, dump it, drive. Take a body, maybe your own, and dump it gently. All your dead, unfinished selves and dump them gently. Take only what you need. The machine of the world--if you don't grab on, you begin to tremble. And if you do grab on, then everything trembles. I spent my lamp and cleft my head. Deep-wounded mind, I wasn't doing anything with it anyway. And the birds looking for a place to land. I would like to say something about grace, and the brown corduroy thrift store coat I bought for eight-fifty when you told me my paintings were empty. Never finish a war without starting another. I've seen your true face: the back of your head. If you were walking away, keep walking.
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Ton pseudo sera publié. Laisses les champs vide pour rester anonyme.
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