Re­trieved from the Mus­tard Fields


Room Magazine - - NAGRA -

I. It has been told to me

I will for­get, am for­get­ting— nape of neck with red curls, scent of ginger.

Phan­toms tired now, push on­ward.

Logic: rec­og­nize me—

I’ve come from noth­ing that de­fines you, us. Not this po­si­tion where you have come to con­struct your hand-built er­rors

where even what is real like an or­gan can be made pretty: en­cas­ing dozens of false hopes, I mean [red] hearts . . . it’s all the same.

This need for a heart to be made lovely is a symp­tom.

II. I re­mem­ber it now; it hap­pened on a Satur­day mark­ing

Novem­ber’s edge ar­riv­ing in traces, ut­ter­ances din­ning from the sky’s rim.

Those voice-filled fields where dreams tear from the wak­ing— un­hook the black in­seam of night. III. You will tire of the rea­sons why you de­test oth­ers, & the soul will walk draped in

its form and ache to be called upon.

It is [I], her, him never leav­ing a name.

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