Oh Lee,
We were strangers who never visited the sea together as they did.
They were not fascists, but made their tymbals after a god in bricks
for an invisible Empress. In Russia, in the mirror of the arctic which we fed
with dancing bears, our hosts came bleeding and we sang for them
in walls the color of dusk, syzygies hospitable in every resonance for their
hearts were as valves of precious color, and as these days go by
I long for you more, and I think more about you now that you are gone,
and if I sit in a chair whose back is straight up, the whole lordosis of this
memory is forced to sing, Empress of bricks in the Arctic mirror tettix,
tin hand brushing hair, face whose eyes have no fate to ladle, our mouth
as one syllable, oh Lee, if only their ignorant news were only shock
to a wooden flue, these cold hyle rabbits pushed out in Autumn where
the pigment gets loaded by whistling distracted stevedores in dark knit
toboggans with patches laid on of bulldogs or skulls in top hats
wearing monocles.. Oh Lee, our child is ancient Egypt, and Pan goes
sneaking through the reeds to encounter a nymph made of moonlight
dancing alone on the waters. Holy. Holy.
Eskimo kisses in Summertime,
Marina
