The Lonely Freedom

Chris Carosi

How do you love the night correctly?
Just one potion does it, one gentle
parachute in the throat, made
of the heart’s curtains.  Old core,
curved blade bosom.  Slice us
right.  Stored it.  Wrote it.  Believed
it.  And fell, invulnerable, onto
a wounded floor.  God.
The hill country.  The mountain
country.  All nervous of life.
All must tell.  What good is breath?
If no others appear I will tell
myself.  There are dogs
sniffing and trying to find
their old yard.  The bluish train
car sits like a rock on the horizon,
to build up the tomb.  Stand
in the doorway, and commit
treason.  God.  Now hand me
your shoes and let’s go running
through the corn that is never ours.

Round up the crow feathers we find
and force them onto the cool breezes.
Love the rain and fatigue from the rain,
our naked feet bearing in the mud, the
rain boils in the puddles.  Suns in the rain
behind the rain.  God.  How does
a pen begin what to say when our motive
sits on its end bleeding whole earths.
This miracle is not simple.  It tries
no word.  I wonder for a thousand
years as I kiss you, and pronounce
this feeling into tambourines.  You
are not a fool with me to believe
because belief is fundamental.
Rise into my throat, outrageous
blood, stutter as you attempt speech.

Do not be mystic.  Do not hold back.
Do not be afraid to adorn your voice.
Do not pursue thrills.  Search
for the poor king, the heels of the soldier
staring into the burial pit.  Reach
your arms toward the wind
while it streaks past your eyes,
drawing water from your eyes,
You have been there.




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