and then our exile

flutter to nightingale and swallow
winging swiftly through the water
tereus’ bones, blood stain on earth
the water a still mirror rung by lily
these close consuming sealing vials
as droplets strung by infinitesimal tiny blades
rippling over deserted hollows, collar-bone
the separate particles and sweep of our last hands
to where beginnings close

--

new address:

> bki./, etc
> c/o po box 3394
> canadian embassy
> mezzeh autostrade
> near razi hospital, lot 12
> damascus, syria

this is done for convenience, because the embassy's a thirteen minute walk from the new place, and also for happiness, because the MKB were asking questions at the syrian post office. anyways, send me letters.

--

i used to write heavily and stopped suddenly, and ever since have this sense i flounder. this would be true i think for anything, but...meh, generalizations to the gibbet--i used to used to used to. [just over a year ago.]

i told farooq two days ago, his webpostings are honest, mine stopped being so the moment i realized i was doing so both for others and myself. and so twisting between selfiscopal and presenting, i end up doing neither. trying to set things in order, but half-hearted: the subconscious knowing that when i have external things where they should be i will have to start again to set things on paper, and this i shy from, because what was it eliot wrote? "things i cannot touch because i am too near"--that would give honest eyes that are not too near, and so will rip through and confirm and mede out and form a just arbiter, and justice here is something i blink at.

but life goes on.

--

this is the oppressor's language

yet i need it to talk to you (ARich)