thick as southern air--
swamp mist and iron rain-
falls into my muscles
like venom--
my flesh liquid as wish
fulfilling physics
into its down-dropping
surge toward Will
pooling like a stasis
in the brain pan of a
some fake mystic
who never saw past his
move through the gunnels
of some heavenly terrace
he imagined once to be
his vision of the Infinite--
here only does even
the anxious ignorance
wash down fresh as
blooming in a yard of one's own
acquiescence
*
what heart now to broach
on the question of loneliness--
none
no one is alone--
no one need say a thing--
only
the heart would do so
that did not know itself
*
Content (c) 2008-2009 Philip Milito.
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