Nicholas Morley 1.29.2013 Poetry 1 Peter Richards Draft 1 The Gulf, It Loves You A.

My father, in the car, the passenger side, laughing quietly only for his own inner ear to hear and cherish, this semi-handsome cynic of a software developer with the bulging paunch and the lines of too much time too quickly, once, in a fit of sadness at his dual citizenship in the land of recycled lives and the land of the immortal machine named progress, coughed and dubbed people, Those Things That Are Not Chairs. I so envy his mottled heart. B. She is not a chair. Her limbs do not accept mine into their grooves of nights spent lying together under separate sets of blankets, well aware, full-awake and silent, the words evicted, lungs laid bare on beds of nails, except there is no lesser audience agape, no slow-motion clapping laughing various family members caught in the sun. There is no essence here. This is the top of the desert plateau that all whom bind themselves together must scale

jaws jigsawed into perpetual sighs and their bellies emptied. hands only held by the tips of their fingers. C. ensnared on an assembly line of tongues so close to touching and each other. There is no gatemaster and it is a flat. and they sweat out all the self they have to give some days. to steam out the wrinkles along their cheekbones with fresh fumes waiting at the bottom of that encircling edge. These are. seduced by the barren promise to silence the sad laughter. a rubber band cutting off their circulation. is absolved by the vines.and survey and catalog and wonder upon and inevitably ask if this is their Everest. and will be. until the gulf of minds that binds us all in mystery. and there are the hesitant. they do not mind. And all of these find themselves outlined by the moonlight in the dark of the shadow of mountains built upon meeting. in fascination. though they live. to give a fresh set of eyes. tangled and pink and . moving. and there are the suicides. crowded plane and the people here live in clumps: There is a core of the smiling. trapped in orbit betwixt extremes of will. x-es its own checkbox. resigns itself. though stiffly as if stuffed.

. Though. This world is full of needles occasionally known as people which also occasionally bloom as if sung to or shouted at. which lurks behind the mask of soul.squirming and pulsing: our mind. for sure. D. it will be murdered before it can ask politely to leave the room.

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