Heliotropes, Irises, Ecstatic Stoicism

Lullaby as alibi
Kitsch quiet/
Naive
I don't have any death, he says, threatening the scarlet stationary of an invitation to forever
In the ferris of pure principal carriages turn as inappropriate as interchangeable--
I was where you were supposed to be, he said
Women make the best slaves, I advertised, by the way I folded everything, even his dense glances, even his lies, into something privacy would decipher or disappear

Now he sings, now he sobs, about the cruel immortal, about the union of kitsch and tragedy he can no longer ignore he is living

Women make the best escapes, I advertised, running backwards across the empire state--
5,000 ways of not looking at a blackbird falling from the sky are to fly for him or sing, say one- day-everything-will-be-as-it-should-be and tell him he was there (on that day) already, exploiting the remoteness of humanity in every motel with an empty vase or room we could have stayed empty, That way what comes next is not neat and I can write it a high tide or treaty: How we force ourselves to fall in love with our conquerors to gain some control over our experience and when they set us free we stay near them voluntarily, that was the dream of their Overlook, the luck of Sweden in the took of the Sudan, connections a man makes when he forgets his language and finds its pollen in the blanks

Between youth and a theory of mutant purples
everything you say on purpose is false
even to her
even to him
events snap the ribbon back into one strand and that's when the limbo gains a reason