In the hourly sun-flood and the coming blooms and scents anew the talk is terrible way back where I ought to be. And I do stunted gleaming things to keep you from the ceaseless cawing and I
grow cold and awkwardly regress, but my skull’s usurped by consciousness so I’ll just curl here animal new and sick aware. C’mon tell me if I’m one more expendable, friend I’m not of those lovelies
I can’t keep fawning under the day glow; this chatter’s killing me.
I’ll walk out and try to hear the birds now, I will force them full in my ears, sting my face. I will shove the flowers in my hair and I will love and honour this new-fangled day without you.
You live in the snow and I will keep you there unthawed for a while longer down here by my spine. A part of me knows- maybe the concave of neck and the swan-arching impulse to lay at your feet-
that my mouth and my blood won’t ever be un-salty, un-blue with you aching nor will these ears lose the ring of your cooing, but I won’t care January, even now I’m roped to him and I am too
fear-fraught and faithless to live by your rule; my words have been echoing hollow and now I’m stuffing you sweet through my teeth so I’ll show some dumb dedication to more than his cause.
But to have this alone is so listlessly barren and the coming full sun does slow awful things to my stomach and head and yes I am powerless infantile, writhing wise and immobile and far too
aware of my need to comply. But there’s beauty in this hour I won’t know unless he’s here, so I’ll regret later when the dog-days and fire descend unto change. We could not keep unknotted when this
started, January, with your frost-danced-on-ultimatums, and I need him; downright and shame soaked I need him, for somewhere I made him everything. I cannot admit it today, I am feigning resolute
with sun bled and matted through my tangled hair, coarse new cries and sights are all dirty haloes round my face. I need him, but I’ll try denuding and tearing free the shells of monomania,
stroking love into hand-reared birds till I’m crushing their necks with hands round the half-hearted hope and his hold over me. And maybe he’s got sully haloes too today while false
exhalations pledge souls out of reach to your stark dew January. I am afraid as recycled blossoms leer like rooks and terribly taunt me, my weak-willed love. I am sick with salt I’m so sick with
No I won’t be down and out with the dove-less dreams; I’ll just be graced and I’ll remember your grace and the glory even I admit we’ve shared; and I won’t destroy it no I won’t unpick that.
I will need you and love you like always, January it’s no use, but I will remain steady earthbound and free from the slog of the sea where I’ll just be thankful and forever in awe, don’t make that
hurt no more.
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