• 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.


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