You smell of death
in january motions
clean-sweeping exile
eyes sewn together
pupils touching
tears colliding
far too beautiful to handle.
You see as though turned
upside down and projected
into your future from your past
where reality barely held you
and escape left you hungry.
So you circulate your love
like fliers for your socialist convention
and neither will deliver you
from the pain you keep close.
Because you move in January motions
on top of dried leaf paper
crunching under the snow
and you hear the death calls of
their suffocations
but you move, taking no heed,
the hero
and the executioner.

01/17/2002

Posted on 01/17/2002
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