Josh Fomon :: from THOUGH WE BLED METICULOUSLY

There, a universe about to burst—
the panic, the midday tonguing, an alibi in each
language we’ve found. We pretend to comprehend the vigil

          (yet we do not know)
          where solitude outpaces immensity.

          in truth, the mountain always looms
          no, the outcome of prophecy.

 

 

 

 

We place the echo in the mouth
(and in the stitches before our interdict,
we practice wearing our pasts and try to speak.

Last night, her mouth opened.
I want to know what it meant,
its insistence on tournament.

In mythology we find moldered rhymes—

We remember the mouth on the mountain
and go there to cast out our origins.

 

 

 

 
Still, in another life. Some things
are water spots on my writing
          the way I say burn the mountain,
          create an invention of murmurs,

          you posing for an erasure—
          how language never feels quite full

 

Held like water, the sparrow folding into its own,
edgeless, she manipulates the control.

 

 

 

 

 

And one thing is for certain: I was not dying,
yet I was not accustomed
          to flight. The high omission of death
halve the day, unplant the world.
                                                                      Our silenceable memory
                                                                      we have been shaping to open

                                    In summer, the mountain has a tone.
                                    When she says repeat the bloom

                                    I pour out generations.