The trees in America grow from the valves of Geronimo
and the surgeon sweep of my hand scraping jewel from the clockwork interior that
has not known life or the difference between the bark
  and the liquidation of the Constantine bell
Ringing anguish into the world
Symbologies appear
and appear to trick you by magic
But it isn't magic, is it?
It's the masked clouds worn outside of yourself
that let you live the heights of gilted ekstasis
As the myth of hypnotic apparition
three times the means of infinity
walks on tiptoe to appear at the door
Wrapped in a palate of hollowed sealskin
Jefferson is impeccable in the disguise
of your presence, or your absence
his nape mingled with solarized hands
take on hues of a deep dark redbreast
In love there is substance and in sleep there is wisdom
and in eternal disguise history brings forth a bloodbath
for your elegant rebirth
You who have furrowed deep
in the flagrant backdrop of the Americas' scape
an ambassador of pure air speckling the cleaves
and the whitest sea changing skies
content without looking back
you have ruffled the immoral throes of Mollock
and his caginess
and his women
and their prolonged opinions that haven't changed
the suppleness of their breasts
or the dullness of their readiness
when the landscape doesn't account
for the flickers of a difficult epoch
Vermillion waves still cloud the clearings
Unequivocally masculine
Undergo a mystical repose
from the language of light
to the end of this war
and the next
still burning
my adversaries pick a common point in the future
and howl like wolves in intervals that remain constant
to human progress
After all
I have attested my destiny is still a child's tryst
and my catcall says hello to a starry trust
there
with your polished pity against the St. Lawrence birds
and their dreams of flying away like mad beggars
with their poems of Spring seasoned in mist.
The sons of false, tangled up demons fail to see me there,
black against the cliffs and forest of their dialectical dungeon,
where I can keep no secrets from my youth
and tell everything to the senses that I lost like a grave.
I am the porous tree in the corner of a scheme
to do better still
amongst creatures tamed by the drift of appetite
and the America of my youth that has yielded no solution
to any question I've ever asked
In this respect
I am a man.