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Blickstein

J. J. Blickstein

Night Shade
for Jen

your kiss is a jar of fireflies
the sticky liquor blushing the bells
in the pores to bang their tongues of instinctual water
into semaphores of light
you recite a rhythm portrait without numbers & carve a totem pole
milking the fur of the holy dog
you feed the wrinkle in the machine
sweeten the nightshade & hypnotize mankind back into tents
which must work with the curve in the horizon & the green in the wood
you stop the act of admiration & gesticulation
before the frail warm gestures of robed butchers
& the contrite violins of generals
you make me leave my shoes with the broomstick by the door
I shit on statues & work in the fields
you smear my tattoo
& when you open your mouth to say the words
the buffalo replenishes the herd
you set fire to the stone & pollen
& the ears of the world bleed all the way to Karnak
where I become that scarab rolling shit backwards
over the lips of the sphinx, the greeks, the french,
back through time & the doorway
where the heart rose from ashes & diamonds
& shed me to your breast
useless

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