SESTINA WITH SIX TITLES
I tried
to set my longing down, I tried.
Behind the white chalk circles
my longing drew. Neatly, I backed away
from longing, drew all of my swords
at once, my hands on the back of the head
of all my new longing.
I met
my longing
in the heat. Tired and hot, I tried
to shelter my longing's head,
draw hasty circles
in the sand with my swords
as if to signal stay away.
I travelled
with my longing, far away,
folded and packed my longing
alongside my shirts and swords,
and as we walked, I tried
recalling all my longing's circles
from the circles inside my head.
I sought
to steal my longing's head,
steal language of longing away,
watch the bloodied circles
seep from the neck of my longing.
Many times, my longing tried
to kill me with my own sword.
I rode
my longing like a horse, my sword
like a lasso stirring above my head.
I lassoed my longing, tried
to break my longing away
from its wildness, but longing
ran the fence, circle after circle.
I lost
myself inside my longing's circles,
fell into my longing like a sword
into the sea. My longing
lost itself inside my head,
and so I tried to find a way
to set it down, I tried,
dune after dune, the blousy heads
of onions wishing my longing away;
the horse tried; the mirage of the horse tried.
TYPO
29
|