Saturday, September 8, 2012

James Cervantes


Don't baby-foot us.
We ask, however, that you keep
indentations clean: We might want to delve.

We promise no clergy at your bedside.
Your naked body will be clothed in cornflowers,
glued to you . . . what the hell.

We've determined that blue is not your color.
It is ours.

We prefer backtracking to the present moment,
coupling with it, then moving forward.

Satisfactory? Then let go.
If you bring up death, we will do a follow-up.


Mouth Opened Before Thought Was Finished

Mouth opened before thought was finished.
That is the current assessment.

Raw, colorless thought—baby thought ostensibly
about a particular foot, as in response to pedicure.

Arbiters point out that dead skin falls off
without our having to remove it.

Let's make it about something else: Love dies,
or house pokes its head above water

a buoyancy wherein speaker/thinker cuts anchor 
and moves where the heart always floats

but then he dies before the deal is closed. 
Could also be gah gah gah, which for a baby

is not fill but a significant addition
to its anthology, and which it will remember

and perhaps mouth as part of
its last incomplete sentence.


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