Adam Day

Ihre Kinder

 

There’s no new apple, unisexed, no

new metal, only a disappearing

        vocabulary and correspondence –

        the earth having thrown

us running unbuttoned, back to cracked

 

 

        caves and turlygod, to keep

        and sleep in earthen

basements unarchitected, beyond a little fire

in a field, and the white-haired waves

 

 

pinioning terns—we throw our heads at them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Comportment

 

A white fur throw over the couch, and a boy

pinching his cheeks to pinken them a bit, enliven his

only relative being. It’s not  magic, it’s work. Gendarme

clenching Genet’s tube of petroleum jelly. For the head,

not the hair. Pink the poetic ideal, but it’s always

a bit more tan than that. Sweat behind his ears, buttons

and unbuttons his shirt. Playing the role of a character

who plays a role. How’s the body?, the gendarme wants

to know, when did your father first make a woman

of you? Officer, most men stuff a specter: woman

is only a theatrical illusion, furnished by degrees.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

COMPORTMENT

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A white fur throw over the couch, and a boy

 

pinching his cheeks to pinken them a bit, enliven his

 

only relative being. It’s not  magic, it’s work. Gendarme

 

clenching Genet’s tube of petroleum jelly. For the head,

 

not the hair. Pink the poetic ideal, but it’s always

 

a bit more tan than that. Sweat behind his ears, buttons

 

and unbuttons his shirt. Playing the role of a character

 

who plays a role. How’s the body?, the gendarme wants

 

to know, when did your father first make a woman

 

of you? Officer, most men stuff a specter: woman

 

is only a theatrical illusion, furnished by degrees.

 

 

 

 

 

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