I could get drunk on holy water,
and these violins,
and the darkness branded on me.
Or revisit a pivot point of repressed rupture:
a standing crowd with my kind of anatomy,
on one side,
contrasted by a string of androgynous Germans,
with sharp jaws and skin like clingwrap,
on the other,
making the former look like deflating balloons.
If I take things at my own pace the sluggishness vanishes–
the sluggishness is brought on by the pressure of speed!
But all of it is, anyway,
a hurried flight away
from destroyed nest to destroyed nest–
And still, anyway,
I’m ready to perch.