stratification
from hart crane
side by side with a memory--
the scent and taste of rain,
the wetted sexual concrete and
the frictive proturbance of cloud against cloud
against cloud--
there lies that physical moment,
as if it were a body swathed in satin,
post-sepulchral, nearly present.
the hollow that i made myself,
the echoing flesh i fashioned of myself.
as if but a stroke of yours
could, belated, slacken, somehow, or tauten
my strings
to vibrate in strange patternings.
stand quite still and let
the wind blow its note in me.
the red blossom grows in me.
do what you will to me.
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