you taped my hands with magnets to record in the memory of iron
seven
balls of string
color
spun to ring
coil
along my arm
they’re
waiting
for
the light to change
there
is an echo
fire
Autumn in our voices
we
are, heavy in the mead
rising
and falling
in
a drunken revelry
of
passing baton
between
rolling conversation
and
the underneath it all
thievery
of our eyes
lust
is always in
crisping
to cool air
with
flicker magic
performing,
a shadow lattice
putting
near ice
on
the gourd
where
the intersects
are
these moments
are
the chances we’ve taken
turning
the wheel, ourselves
we
run our mouths
like
Prometheus
spilling
our soul
of
time because
the
ritual of the cup
harvests
everything
until
silence
pauses
and spawns
itself
in the sway
loop
laughter chain
that
is what gathering
with
stolen elements
can
do for us
though
we never
say
this out loud
until
we are
around
a fire and
the
smell of deciduous death
is
everywhere
in
a portal circle
where
everything you say
becomes
important to you
to
the point
of
pausing
with
emphasis
like
we’re presenting
or
performing a poem
we
sing a tune
every
twenty syllables or so
then
our pitch changes
we
press the pedal
of
intonation for believability
while
we question ourselves
before
every word, because
when
all else fails
and
we feel the empty
of
words, coming on
we
know we will sing
with
all the fine cloth
layering
of emotion we can
something
we think we know
we
will be singing
to
stop carrying our fire in words
where
every moment carves us still
so
we say tag out
with
some chorused
fuck
it phrase and soft shoe
song
and dance
that
we’re good at
singing
between the lines
a
song of I’m too drunk
to
converse
that
says
I’m
just going
to
laugh instead
as
I think I just
pissed
my pants
a
song that says
fuck
it, the crickets called a cab
they
wrote down
the
rest of the words
and
they can auto-tune
my
voice and animate
my
desires and
you
can watch
whenever
and
as
often, as you want
just
please be
kind
and
rewind me
to remember
my name
EJR
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