elevation

down below in the swamp
far from the clouds’ reflection in the lake
without the aid of sun or any medicine
far even from the pale light of stars

I am still agile and in good spirits
born with the map of the city on my hand
with the animus of silicon in my veins
the untraceable guile of the solitary

my morbid short-sightedness will guide you
let my air of superiority fill your lungs
drink in the forty-proof liquor of divinity
the brain-fire that warms this dreary bog

my twitchy nerves and hyper vigilance
have burned away the flesh
I’m one of the happy and vigorous ones
with luminous skin and handy serums

I don’t cheer for anyone or any team
the sky in the morning is my obsession
what will be your understanding
when the language of flowers is silent?

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About Gesture Press

Publisher of solicited poetry and related writing
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