the men adore the butchered thought
of admiration for the men
(who do) for cutting wood to fit
against the other wood, they cut.

a duplicated map of thorns
will never touch the wreath. a cut
will never seed the tree of life,
nor pieces writ, the divine form.

but women, so distracted, will
make sandwich bread for them, to soothe
their breadthless lengths, to multiply
digits on barren diagrams.

if sinew, taught by love’s remorse,
could paint a thought, the blind would see
the daily crucifixion of
an animal geometry.

but women, silencing in time,
purée their sentences for them.
and speech will thin, like hair, and lips
re-make the skin to keep words in.

an excerpt is excerpted-from
until the palimpsest is pulp,
the meat is mince, and men are point-
less marks on partless everything.

//

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