NATASHA KESSLER


ALTAR

Your  skin  so fair.  Song  asleep  in the woods.  Horizon
falling under horizon.  Run through  the woods and dark
briars.  Open  your  face  and run  through  it.  Run to the
horizon and  the horizon under it.  Leave me  nothing but
flowers in the window without water.   Leave me piles of
rabbits.  Here  we  are  nothing.   Here  you  are  running
through your own face and the horizon. A song asleep in
the woods.   The white rabbits are dead.  Are they dead?
Bury  them  in your  open face.   And why does  ravel and
unravel  mean  the same  thing?  Lie down.  We are only
pieces.   Where are you going with gravel in your shoes?
 
 
 
 
YOUR DRESS MAKES A NICE LANTERN

But  the  wild  dog’s  still  hungry,  lost  and  running  in the
field where  you stand  every night  for one  hundred  years,
a half-face, gauzy dress.  You clutch all that you own.   You
are an outline, a strand of light draped across a new bone.
 
 
 
 



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