no one shall bend my ear to your recourse the voice of course is morse
(but not mine)
in sea I find the memory mine not yours but mine
not yours but mine!
won’t you let me out?
keep me here:
I found wax inside your ears and bent them in to fill my doubt with
my out is here no clout but sere
the memory of drifting weeds and further south:
my own my voice no one else’s
it’s buried in the hot love
underneath the burial ground itself is our only palpably sounded
sound the mouth with sonar and with doubt and stretch its edges so we
the redoubt of our mathematics
still spinning round our thrumming castle of being:
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