Istoryahun, trans.


Tell us of the boiling chocolate.
The collapsed chocolate, the bone
white in the naked melting. I don’t like this.

Don’t believe, for a second, that we’ll fit
in the cracks, in the breaking of the Basilica.
Which was art, I know, the heeled and well-
schooled. Am I to save the confessional
because I did not cry, did not know if.

Had I seen the girls stampeding,
stomping on a kitten.

You were shown the earth.
You were shown the earth awake.

I was shown the knowing soil.

But I did not see you, Carmen, or
what to make of the pieces of the altar-
piece while. I said chocolate,

forget us who were swallowed by hello.
But you said, it was you who.

I still hear it, the sound of curtains
ripped by the wave of pillars.


Please follow our commenting guidelines.

Comments are closed.