Joshua Marie Wilkinson
All my own blood is gone because I’d lent it without knowing to a friend for his poems read him Aurelie’s passages sent him on an errand to the unworkable now— Will you supply me a poem to keep you alive, snakes? Another—here Ceravolo— another, now— Whom the fuck ever, now another don’t die, wastoid.
I’m late. I’m afraid. This is a dream. Bernadette’s deathlaugh is a child’s mischief caught & smoked a bit near the dorm’s open windows, under the foliage of the campus in spring. No dream. No earnings. Breaking even, maybe a bit in the black to stand around at the faces of those going what now for me?
And be led by a dog under the salt of stars to a forgery’s thief remaking the poems to a serviceable end hapless, airborne, thirsty at once for an old saint’s convergences to produce a ringing to the teeth via ear canal. The mind’s a gutter guttering, the victim’s just a tree the loom is no noose but of course it could be.