- Goldberg Variations
these hands, their roughness if you tell me what to swallow, I’ll do it
sheathed in ice, brittle as glassanother kind of groping in the dark
a blue note fills the room climb on top, again and again
what the mouth means he commands the leaves to fall
smell of sweat, breath like creosotesifting desert sand through fingers
roots turn back to dirt trees left with their nakedness
voice like a trombone’s slide the weight of one body on another
moves from one pitch to the nexthe who holds the gun
the way we learn language he who churns the waters
what the mouth means when it speaks smell of cologne—a man wants to touch me
turn to ash, turn to boneI’m trying to unhinge my jaw
speak, speak my mouth full of rust
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