To the Barracks

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Members, remember how I missed you when my aim was dead
and your quivers bulged with passionate intensity. That slide’s
not blue enough Maman. I cannot quiet you, though I try to
The composite vision compromises hindsight. I kant historisize
our changes. Nor can I  remember them. These our leaves hunt
among gisants, pant between love and desire. Yet they are ours—
and they will be yours. In an absent tete à tete, we lose them each 
morning in time's burnt breakfast. Banana-eating baboons in Chinese 
flight, perfectly ungainly in unproven parachutes--like inperfect 
cuckolds. Scooters to gaol, elections to fixation, appro priation to 
foresight, pricks into the closet. The pistolettes of gondeliers,
hidden, will open on all dumb rap tures, for a tuppence. As we drift 
downward to arks on distended stars, and their delayed deaths—
the wings or the oars of signifying oblivion, and the muscled
                 burning tires at the edge of the orchard 


 
 

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