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Untitled [II]

By Kyle E Miller From Issue No. 8

Clouds the color of veins as a storm Rearranges the attic of the sky. Old memories tumble from sealed boxes. Fault lines shift in the earthen cellar. A claustrophobic, gauzy Sunday Like mounting a horse underwater. My mind, a pudding; I hate children And dogs, but only when they speak. I expose the genitals of a pole bean blossom: Three whip-tailed insects squirming, Declaring, I think, their disgust for the light. In practice, language becomes like the nearly Infinite arrangements of features on the Faces of humanity: if they were all the same we Might learn the meaning of a curled lip But as it stands, we know nothing. Expression is best, that is, most beautiful, when Silent, capacious, open in the manner of Constellations, because those who tell me to Love everyone seem to hate humanity the most. Ideas appear to sculpt the circus of history, But in the end you have only a pair of Jacob’s shoes and nowhere to place them. Certainly not on his feet.

About Kyle E Miller More From Issue No. 8