(no subject)

     º

the black chord
struck
and pulled tighter.

who could resist.
the keys
denote
the body
a stretch of hand
forms the octave
nude as a neck
as execution.

what chord pulled you
to this.
now your hand
trembles
over the keys
but which tricked you in
which opened
the black cry
that still clings to the walls
like paint.

was it the soft or
the loud. was it
the black or the white.
which enameled
candied tooth
was pressed and
did press.
or was it instead
one of the grinning
knife-spaces
between.

what guilt
tore this crime from you.
the twelve notes have stood
to sentence.

the evidence is in
the air
cackling
choking.

the judgement
is echo
is black
is undiminished.

(no subject)

(and where is the triumph they said would give us grace. life has felt like a succession of failures and false starts, a forest animal testing the bars of this hazey cage, banging against each in turn, learning to charge slower, to keep the neck up and avoid whiplash. when, now, it should be glorious, the fog that has always felt like beauty reminds me I can't fly higher than the trees. that my wings are clipped. or, I haven't the strength to spread them. hobbling like baudelaire's albatross but less poetic, more piteous. and then, after it all, to adopt this veil of maudlin indifference to hide what I'm really saying: I'm sad. I'm lonely. I'm cold. There is no future, only birds and fog and forest noises and leaves becoming dirt.)