27 April 2011

“I’m against language. It usually sucks.”

But I’m Talking

Your hands like the smallest airplanes, exploding
all around your face, and outside the factory

stand the dark trees, their shivering limbs. I tell you this
not because I know the landscape, but because

I know how much this means to you. Labor’s
elegant machinery: bodies and their bones still

too strong to be bones—such weight
against the earth, wind as chilly as a thousand knives…

And the system’s in place. What a process when you tell me
my shirt’s on fire, this process

and this productivity. There’s the mouth you speak through.
Such strange warmth I should remove.

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