Nicholas Skaldetvind
Am I the monster out of the classical world as a beast bent on grace,
a fear of living in separate separation
from the women I love. Ghosts of another world
corralling in the pull of pendulous paradise.
What is near becoming distant youth close to
making sense
what this centering moment requires
a glimpse of someone loving
in an etiquette of grace
fraudulent memory in abstract negative space. A nerve twists
so leave it at that in California
I am wringing out
the past in a cold summer fog
while you sleep about, you,
I think it was you, who reminded me
that each gesture shared overshadows the background
of who we are. Probably the act of remembering
is the act of full heartache actuating the myths.
Drying up in the void of the past. Making themselves felt
in the foreground I move against continuously
foreseeing telephone calls as a natural predator –
chthonic mind – telephone poles are crucifixes underground
imploring the words to work.
Hearing the waning moonlight
across Sancho and Quijote
because of the jagged neon in Grand Vía in spite of
this, I told myself I did anyway in conversation
with my diary in a supreme fear that I’d
be lost in a wandering sense -
sorry I was counting how old I was, sorry
I never answered on time. Under a California sun I embody
lonesomeness after company. Call me Skaldetvind.
I’m ashamed to keep telling you this as if I’d always been myself.
Memory clicks as someone I love calls me
against a certain slant of morning light into the clear.
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