Husk of the Feast

Patrick Dunham

it began w desire / for a brilliant blue sky / to flood the back / of our retinas
for a trout / to slither among shallow stones / its muscled back / caught by shaft of sun
we sought to catch / the mute silence / of the heart / obscured by a lovely yawn / of objects

time bent / & filled w preservatives
we were ever clothed / in today / its groaning / shredded / daily fork / of words
self portrait floating / in the folds / of the me / its wall of skin / harboring the gunked data / of my
the city’s content nausea / & mascara scythes / men on the subway wearing suits / of time’s
poisoned quills / above us no sky / no land / no scape
what white of wide machines / among me / cameras clicking like locusts filling every joined
room / w an amplified / chewing sound

the meat around my chest / throttles its voice / but I cannot make out the words
the collapse of scene / into screen / mirror / into network
capillary webs / blooms of golden lipids / decaying about me / like empire
what is the wound? the object? or the image that records it?
the spring swelled / in computer fruit / & marrow frills / under an indoor / neon sky
I came to see / the fleshclock’s sprawled branches / pulsing / on each wall
low flying / quick moving clouds
dark pink air / hot & alive / w cries

w slow tongue / & swimming eyes / we made haste / away from the curated oblivions / from
acres / of germless chrome
into the open countryside / its living pieces / forming a harmony / horizon jutting out / to love the
raw blossoming
crown of thornapple husks / pressed into darkest hair / footpath serpentine / w sunblasted berries
tulips spread their petals / wide in the sun / sugary / spherical vowels / that ancient green
language / fluttering in the dragonfly quickness / of the morning
faintest light in tree / pulls me forward / & the wind blows through us / in one string
the flowers say / that perhaps we cannot see / that green fields fall / & become blue / history ever
pressing its greenness / against a slow curve / of light

indigo deep / is the glassy pool
a stream that has no language / courses beneath the quiet heaven / of your eyes
your collarbone a balcony / let my lips / be the birds
my one / shrouded in analog light / how do we envelop the jaundiced blue?
& how can we greet the tumble rush / unfurling / between porcelain sheets / of time’s flesh?
purling into the horns of water / ripples cannot catch?