print previewback RYO YAMAGUCHI
The Weeknight Showing
Sing from your rope, fair sailor, from your arms,
the light of the universe cresting upon your forehead.
In three versions the story goes, and in one
you are exonerated. In another you are beaten with clubs.
Look at me please from inside your wrappings
and slip me the acceptance, the thin boundary of stars
passing overhead of this deadened North
and its paper city. I have long been in love, with
impress, forever damaged into something new,
a refutation of ecology, a long distortion of reading.
I have long administrated this project of the dead.
The sunrise aches with reality, overwhelming calculus,
its fruit skin and its succulent acid, its delicate seizures
of form, the world hard beneath our feet and the same
in every direction. 