A journal of narrative writing.
Another Machine to Praise

I might lie to you the way Wood lies, growing darker Like a coastal edge receding Over the earth‘s curve. At this desk boredom is a fire. I might light a wooden dog on fire To praise your Beauty which is illegal In the country of my brain-pan Where dictators follow easily each other Soft and large and prone to sweat. One pretended he was blind. I might lie to you again, cleanly, Or tongue the armor of a tank. In either case, an incurious compass That aligns the various fractures. And if I lie to you, what then, what tools Do we need to save the carousel, The hammered lion, to feed him With our hands. I might wish to hold You before the trumpets And later the skyline. I might lie to you about a childhood When I drank from a creek Because I was far from home.