Gerald Burns signature    


That it can alter toward indifference is nothing like eroding brick, pitted by acid or
the pebble caressed (Clio’s diamonds in the gutter or palest emerald these
would be, assimilated to value as if stuck in a silk tie Mr. Prynne), or paler ovals in asphalt.
It is a clue, not at all that it’s tied to Being but another deity altogether,
for which writhing would be different (does differ) her, body, as one won’t quite
get to the wood dancer face so urban and the rest – once polychrome, weathered headboard or medicine chest after
all – another flavor more than taste, as edible junkets with rosewater are
or elephants advertising tobacco, letters creasing as they move.
Well, or the macramé with mirrors so embroidered there’s no outlet a while and
to see them as Russian is easy waistcoat dirndl, shieldlike silver cairngorm pins for
Victoria shoulder plaidies.
And the deer ate each other’s horns, for the calcium.
Illustrations are like clocks, what I’m in for the architect curve, festive but useless to the amateur as the
fiddle scroll, a time all there, keys flattened for thumb, perhaps rosewood
a permanent gain. Stars of perspiration laid down by pores are whorls against barely perceptible grain.
The animal turning twists the washed intestine, imagined stone cat
tool like an A fork.
Mandolin fitted shell around an oval hole (museum necklace) crinoidal
feels too much like aftermath to be collectible. Opening the bandaid box
without the thumb, say, as waiters balance plates on a forearm.




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