The day after his wedding
There is talk of un-kiss, un-touch, un-graze,
There is un-fragrance (attar) in the tethered air, an un-
Raveling of hands (fingers), an undoing of skulls as in a blizzard.
My body as a letter
Sign making-system, with snowy veins,
The red door of sycamore trees is closing, he says,
Like the stern voices of angels.
The febrile mind now colorless
Unhinged a little more,
Once Freud’s station of the uncanny—
A creature now in the middle
Of its forsaking, in the unlit earth of the storm.