by Brian Teare

    "As his unlikeness fitted mine"-

    so his luciferous kiss， ecliptic ： me

    pinned beneath

    lips bitten as under weight of prayer， Ave-but

    no common vocative， no

    paradise above， and we not beholden

    to a name， not

    to a local god banking¹ fever blaze his seasonal² malady³

    of flowers-nor to demi-urge

    nor the lapsarian system's glittering， how

    later we spoke⁴

    between us of sacred and profane⁵ as if the numinous⁶

    could bring death-the only

    system-to bear burn outside

    him

    and hang its glister wisdom and singe⁷ in the viridian wilt⁸. Lilt，

    to break salt in that sugar

    where skin was no choice

    and sanguine⁹， not

    blameless， though， Ave， I loved our words for want

    beginning liquor， squander¹⁰

    sip¹¹ and fizz ： fuck， ferment¹²

    I loved

    and bluebottles tippling windfall rot， bruises¹³' wicked wine

    gone vinegar

    beneath the taut¹⁴ brief glaze¹⁵

    of wings， but

    it was not yet nameable， what we later called disease ： script

    brought us by the trick

    snake's fakey Beelzebubbery.

    In the dirt

    with his dictionary skin， tight skein of syllables¹⁶ knit by un-

    numbered undulating

    clicking ribs¹⁸， the snake slunk

    and stung

    and spelled the dust with his tongue and tail and was nothing，

    a black forked lisp

    in the subfusc grass hued¹⁹

    blue as the blue

    sky tipped its lip to ocean horizon and filled， hugest

    amphora， and sank，

    evening， Ave， I will tell you

    now I loved it

    all. That in his hot body there was something similar

    to the idea of heat

    which was in my mind，

    that when we

    alembic， lay together， we bequeathed the white

    fixed²⁰ earth beneath

    ardent²¹ water and a season's kept

    blood， and I not

    a rib¹⁷ of his， not further hurt in his marrow-for the idea

    of death was in him，

    the only system-and we lay together

    in the field

    that was not yet page， not begun with A-， not alpha nor

    apple， not Ave， not yet

    because what we knew was

    the least of it

    then. It was difficult to sleep with the love of words gone

    gospel between my thighs²²

    where nightly he'd jack²³

    the pulpit， Ave

    Corpus， Ave Numen， gnosis and throb²⁴ unalphabetical，

    I will tell you

    I loved it all， fastest brushfires

    and dryburns

    his body's doublecross， garden lost to loss， incurable²⁵

    season ： wilt， lilt ： singe，

    our song. And the snake，

    lumen skin

    of alphabets， rubbing his stomach in the dust until his tin

    eyes filled with milk，

    his slack skin flickered and split

    and new

    black sinew out of the slough dead lettered vellum

    legless crept and let fall wept

    whisper， hiss， paperhush ：

    with the skin

    language left behind I bind time to memorial ： Book of Our

    Garden Hours， illuminated

    bloom ： Here a gilt script singe sings of heat

    split in its leaves，

    and the bee gives suck to the book ： Ave Incunabulum， love's

    first work ： Ave，

    In Memoriam

上一篇：Eighth Air Force 下一篇：Who Is to Say