Joseph Harms Phlogiston

Lecter and Graham, the final romance, the living epact,
the End of a Hollywood Bedtime Story, sentiment
unabashed. Could I I would I can’t—no longer. Enough
I’s will traintrack. Just yesterday a kyote through the woods
to the river followed me, both lachrymosing, gossip
of the swans and geese ’snownested ceasing. No doubt it’d die
was dying. At the bourne of grange and wilds it stopped and as I left
I knew just like a cut knows blood duplicity again.
Of course this doesn’t matter not so much. So barely held—
blood. Drapetomania. To take stock a fool’s errant. X-
maslights will do tonight. Somehow the lastdrag’s better than
the first. Right as the waves of sleep arrive I tell myself
that this is paradise…My neighbor died the other day (trope).
Now broodmares, rapt shades in snowstorm, line the fence, deposers warmed
by her burning barn, ’snowhushed spit of flakes, a crepitate
machine around which bends the voiding, candle all but flame
the neighing shades (the wax we think we move through), terminus
a quo ad quem (they float like archetypes, seen peripheral
seams, Goya’s mares not there there, regardant horrors
unregarded probabilities), bonfire voicing
the nulling our singularity. Returnticket…Now
and then I know cantwrite: kaleidoscopic eglomise—
the myth of life.     Phlogist     Postscript: I feel so human.

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