12/Gin & Tonic

Truly the heart devises its own psalms,
licks it wounds & snares blinded huntsmen

& this be the coda to steer clear of fatal zones:
Disinherit, Madonna, all buried bones
that shall only scar beasts & turn wounds—
If in the long lost seasons of rhyme
savagery of hands & eyes scuttled
the Kingdom of your lines, still let corpses sleep:
Skeletons must not make for another speech.

Let all, as rule, perish, though we shall ever understand
Why death was death & life was life
& from country where no traveller returns
We snatch lightning signals why all lovers living
must cherish only the sweet fruits of heathens
& scatter in the purple wind the white arid lime.

For what would it profit lovers to wring dry hearts
spit the words that shall rub raw tempestuous hurt
& in the crossmaking of designs let loose the holocaust
of black angels, upturn gardens, break surviving lyres—
Memory, Madonna, must needs it own eyes to see beyond
but must, for Aphrodite, blind the eyes that damn!

Truly the heart devises its own psalms,
licks its wounds & snares blinded huntsmen

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