We are easily disloyal, again, and the light
touch is so quickly for us, it does permit
what each one would give in the royal
use of that ter, Given, settled and
broken, under the day's sun: that's the pur-
pose of the gleam from my eyes, cloud from
the base of the spine. Whose silent
watching was all spent, all foregone-
the silver and wastage could have told you
and allowed the touch to pa**. Over the
brow, over the lifting feature of how
slant in the night.
That's how we
are disloyal, without constancy to the little
play and hurt in the soul. Being less than
strict in our gaze; the day flickers and
thins and contracts, oh yes and thus does
get smaller, and smaller: the northern
winter is an age for us and the owl of
my right hand is ready for flight. I have
already seen its beating search in the sky,
hateful, I will not look. By our lights
we stand to the sudden pleasure of how
the colour is skimmed to the world, and our
life does lie as a fallen and slanted thing.
If he gives, the even tenor of his open
hands, this is display, the way and through
to a life of soft invasion. Is constancy
such a disloyal thing. With the hurt wish
torn by sentiment and how very gross our
threshold for pain has become. And the
green tufted sight that we pa**, to and
from, trees and the gra** and so much, still
permitted by how much we ask.
I ask
for all of it, being
ready to break
every constant thing.
We are bound and
we break, we let loose
what we nakedly hold
thus, he turns
she watches, the
hills slip, time
changes hands.
I ask for it all, and the press is the sea
running back up all the conduits, each
door fronting on to the street. What you can
afford is nothing: the sediment on which we stand
was too much, and unasked for. Who is the
light linked to the forearm, in which play
and raised, up off the ground. I carry you for-
ward, the motion is not constant but may
in this once have been so, loyalty is
regret spread into time, the hurt of how
steadily and where
it goes. She feels
the glimpse over
the skin. She is
honest: she loves
the steady
fear. The
durable fire.
And what you own, in this erotic furtherance,
is nothing to do with response or that
times do change: the matter is not to go
across, ever, making the royal deceit de nos jours.
As each one slips and descends, you could call
it coming down to the streets and the seedy
broken outskirts
of the town.