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A Kind of Headless Guilt Emerges

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I’m alone until I’m asleep, and there you are: naked,
you take my hand: Shhhh! We
 
tiptoe through a
black-blue meadow. To the pond behind the farmhouse. (The farmer
 
sleeps in the blind window.) No cicadas even,
maybe just maybe Venus — & this is before Wednesday, everything’s
                 alright, we
 
tiptoe ‘round the house as around a painful subject — & we’re at the pond!
And now it’s time. To use vague holy-man speech, like: I am
 
another face in your hand, the face of your eye — wing-surrogates, the word
bones
 
it’s time for afternoon, them white-blank architectures.
No, veil. Nothing’s glistening. Christmas, Christmas. It’s time
 
for you to forgive me: I was forced to eat valises
that wouldn’t close by themselves —
 
that was just a dream, good morning:
 
regurgitate the stars and the soot

Ana Bozicevic, "A Kind of Headless Guilt Emerges" from Stars of the Night Commute. Copyright © 2009 by Ana Bozicevic.  Reprinted by permission of Tarpaulin Sky Press.
Source: Stars of the Night Commute (Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2009)
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A Kind of Headless Guilt Emerges

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