Gareth Lee
We suffered largesse, a bombardment
citrus light and a taste of burned
roses, sandalwood blooming in air
pockets whereas from these
pockets come two shocks of levity,
eruptions sacrilegious: origami
churches made of pages, ripped mass
hymnals, serrations so much like
glass bits in our flesh. The pain it is
grace, God laying a broad gray
persistence that emanates its illnesses
in cirrus lesions throughout the sky. . . .
While the metallic, chemical rain has
slicked down our hair and we said
worry about terror and not ourselves
and, rain-witch, your hair is light
Gift
This one, savaged, is revelatory, is
disclosing her tangled enclosures:
• •
So I disavow my affection as I am
overcome by affection, even
accepting what silken swelling
the hematoma (of slow blue)
has infused in her pigmentation
• •
These ribbons, these blue-black
that bedeck the pigmentation
• •
“me, I’ve never been so happy”
Spoken like a spell to keep away
disaffection that sends along
my axis convulsions. Slow blue
convulsions, gorgeous and livid
• •
these that don’t discolor the truth,
the complexion of the truth, at all
