reformation
Sitting on me like a wreath the Breath–
like handshakes meeting and dispersing water–
recasts itself, pretends itself alive,
sloughing off the real disgusting tower.
A man still has his futile charm, building
mirrors out of moments, a monument
to everything that cannot fall away–
preparing for a final, gleeful cull.
Habits make their cousins deep beneath,
bleeding on the beams inside the tower
and the telomeres, so slight, forget another.
Months denote our patterns as a language.
A love will come and rip away the scaffold;
another child will dully leave the threshold;
the Breath forgets itself recast and dies;
and dive we headfirst into clean obliviation?
For what reason could I ask the pleasure?
The tower standing lone capitulates
to none, the spell completes the circuit,
the cousins can be safely killed, alone,
the telomeres forever grow, alone,
the Being makes a language for itself;
written in the human scrawl, you have to
remember the stupid frame, the confines
of fleshing fuck, the oxytocin screaming,
mother womb ocean home–
all of this, known to God–