When Angels Speak of Love

You arrive at sky. No, no, that's not good enough. Give up the kite. Give it a crisis. Give it its psychology, viscous clarity. Let it disappear there. Don't abide the idea that abrupt and gradual are opposite. There's also always. And if, on the cliff of yourself. I'll wait, with a homonym. Same moan for love as for its absence. Air so still and invisible that time is afraid of it. This sky appears in a crisis. Hyper-minimal, ice-wet. The calm in it should frighten you. It means occupation. Don't give it a wire. It can't hold a wire. It isn't a suburb or a desert or suffering, you can't rationalize its emptiness this way. This is the rope testimony climbs into fate. The stray robes of syncretism, Oxum, crowbar, axiom for when your machines are still, empty, naked and late in the night they give up resemblance, beg you to steal them or at least know. This doesn't have to be like anything else. This slide, thick sky, don't dial, don't yield as in the lamb hasn't the lion as in mon ame (my soul in romance languages, my sol, incandescent, doesn't, flinch) my one, my name, my ion, my noble land, you are the man, you are my other country, lend him the sky while you hide in his hand there come spiral shapes, real highs, real lows, real destinations can ruin them, so go nowhere, but be on your way