Rilke Series Continues…with No. 42

You come and go. The doors swing closed.

Your Nothing-Heart, hermano—

I, stolen. Closed


Till what I fight against—

belly-want and long—


Become strangers who sit

On the subway, blue hurt-speak


God. Barbed into me, Your Eye

Turned out, twisted. Don’t You see. I


Who swings bells for our lonely—


Wildly—know the mountain. O,

body-of-doors—Don’t lie!


Dark, I know. Your tongue,

Her song. The Mare’s wish to die.


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