the divide between the mind and body, that makes it possible for us to go to war, comes to a crossroads over the course of a week, over and over again, over the course of a week, and bleeds into another week, and comes to the edges of a forest or a desert, no one knows because the road's not talking (can't, no mouth), and not even the dogs are giving hints...but the hour between day and night, the wolves wake up, and they always say, this is what i want what i really really want, but the shadows of hands obscure the words until the words make no more sense, and the touch of a hand on a hand causes the flesh to cry like it was woken up from a long dream, and there's nothing to suggest this isn't true...and her eyes grow softer behind the spectacles of a speaking subject representing polygonal identities, speaking arguments that play like a tango, and dreams that play like complex social mathematics...but this is not a love poem...and her eyes grow wise under the moon, half wolf, half irish folk singer, laying bare the weight and witness of nights spent alone when the lightning in the blood sends pain to unsuspecting places in the body, and there is war, and there is love, and there is war and love...but this is not a love poem...and her eyes growl with fire under the spell of a yellow candle, spelling words with small fingers under hands that won't try to bend her weight, and not waiting to bend anything but the river, which does these things on her own, and this is when the wolf is louder than the human, and the notion of becoming animal falls at the feet of a hundred french intellectuals, waiting on the floor at her feet, so many feet, and so many tracks from boots on the bed, but only one hunger, only one hunger, that succumbs to the whispers from the river who's kept possibility hiding in her banks...no one can speak when they have left the human world and entered into the animal realm, and so half-possessed, there is no better time than to plan a difficult freedom that is not an escape from this...his jealous bones buried where even the dogs can't reach, to be dug up later as a reminder of another time, when institutions mattered...now mothers matter, bodies matter, and light is the matter that passes between one tongue to another, constructing texts underneath a moon, and even this moon won't dare to speak for the road, it unravels like fingers and find the stories on the tongues of lovers who want to remember...again, not a love poem...and they are so shellshocked by the holes in the day, when the phantoms of the past or the future come in like stuttering tracks on a glitching video, urgent and indecipherable messages that would make anyone anxious, but pulled by the same spirit who comes to say, "this is what sweetness tastes like, and this is the only way to make you remember..."...he wants to write her poems, about how the smooth hands belie the talking bellies, about how this is more complicated than it seemed, about how the puzzles of the moon are like puzzles out of borges, and the same tango music is still playing in the background, and about how this plays like the answer to a thousand dormant charms, come to full power in a year haunted by 11s, about how the idea of twins is never far from the same hands and the same stomachs, but his wolf tongue is too tangled up by the jewels in his mouth...and it rests here, somewhere on this bank, under a moonless sky, the sand covered with the scripts of a thousand possible identities, where fear of water and fear of dehyrdration bounce around like nervous birds, until words are no longer necessary, and the river wakes them up to sing what sounds like impossible words for a love poem written just for them.


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