Beautiful Shirt

Debt

DEBT Painted to the end of each hair, in the dream-life, the boychild seeks not me. When the Age lays hands upon itself, he is the hands. Like mist close to the floor, angels of aftermath haunt the slaughterhouse of his body out of mine. The play must never start because the stage is too beautiful. From the beginning, sanctity yielded to law that yielded to history that yielded to aphasia. Meridian of bitter cold and strings, it never vanishes. Beloved, approachable zero never vanishes. What it forgets or loses enters the music by a back door, the stage so beautifully prepared. Prokofiev dead on the same day. What must only be alone must listen. The wilderness dividing men from creation wants nothing in particular except to carry on the system of crude barter, mouth to mouth, without aftermath. In a brown photograph, blind musicians carry their guitars at chest-height. Behind them, on a public wall, the furtive, lovely slogans of the Comintern curl into the brickwork. Innocence is 47 never lost. It comes constantly an infant to each wall, to every untuned string and eye. Utopian vanishing point: The cold house grew much colder.Journalism governs everywhere the dream-life now and blunts the profile of waking. I who was indistinguishable vanishing wingspan: Boys dancing on the Arctic Circle open the circle, driving it fast toward us. I said nothing of my own, painted it yellow to the end. 48 ...