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from the May 2004 issue


then you go on dying dying in plaster
then the pitch-black snow inside the womb goes on falling
then the face is not while burning pain on the face is

wound is not while the ripe age preserved by beheading is
staying awake is not but sleeping more than a century is
eyelids oozed the blue of eyes

then even mask is not
in the candlelight facial features are an early-winter field
a plaster apple is summoning the pitch-black apple trees

a plaster baby is summoning the dead through clenched gums
then a sleigh full of audiences for four seasons drives in
sky is not crow's signature suddenly is

the sound of snow moving upon tiles
the smallest crystal bedroom when tongue licks into you
skin absolutely is not then lovers

all like a stone-paved town hanging inside you
then go on being loved with fragile beauty in the moment of death
then getting drunk is not while a glass of wine for ever is

a million women moulded by a womb
exquisitely designed tower shut in the open sunshine
with you can only be

with nothing then must be
a numb look again and again moulded by an adverb
a poem moulds a wall of disgust that chases humans

then golden patience no longer is
then plaster roses when unpluckable forever must be anything but
the post-mortem summoned by your funeral make-up then the funeral goes on

Read more from the May 2004 issue
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