Page 89 - Mistranslation Laboratory: An Unfolding
P. 89
I can’t
I can’t
get my folded bones to move. Tide of molten sinew
A tide of waving hands.
the cup of hands
hold the creasiest
shiver, a glimmer, an axe
the size of a finger falls against the steeliest, most sterile of walls,
and all the heat it drank and then deflected in the vessel of this moment
it’s also a cocktail
a mocktail, a margin, an angle, a circumference a distance, a shady find
a place, a love affair
& a very small, planetary breeze
if each inhalation was an elegant form of forgetting
the spark for a rift wholesome as drill-bits
tenor of rough noise held to ransom a crushing diaphragm rises. and
