Rehearsal

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I did not mean offense
It is only my fear
That thins our correspondence.
Only fear that keeps
My lips and fingers
Sealed and wringing.
If only you could understand
The telepathy between us,
The migratory nimbus,
The aerial pantomimes
Ribs closing in like corset
Starving my lungs
Their instinctual triumphs.

If a gull, I might escape isolation
With a cleverly timed squawk,
I might dive down
Into your pitted palm and discover
Some kindly sacrifice
But I suffer no such lucidity.
Every extension is sodden
Tarnished by the caricatures
I employ in rehearsal.

I admire your talent
But I do not expect that you
Would entertain long
My inadequacies.
I have engaged you
Many times, a veritable moon
My forms are numerous
All resembling the articulation
Of an eye but I am no eye,
No prophet
I haven’t the sense
Of my crises
I tear at old wounds
Until a fountain
Counterfeit and carmine
Rises from the motes
That enslave me.

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