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A Real Motorcycle

The word that fills up the poem, that the head tries to excise.
At 6 a.
, the wet lion.
Its sewn plush face on the porch rail in the rain.
Heavy rains later, & maybe a thunderstorm.
12 or 13 degrees.
Inside: an iris, candle, poster of the many-breasted Artemis in a stone hat from Anatolia A little pedal steel guitar A photograph of her at a table by the sea, her shoulder blocked by the red geranium.
The sea tho invisible can be smelled by the casual watcher Incredible salt air in my throat when I see her.
"Suddenly you discover that you'll spend your entire life in disorder; it's all that you have; you must learn to live with it.
" 2 Four tanks, & the human white-shirted body stopped on June 5 in Place Tian an Men.
Or "a red pullover K-Way.
" There is not much time left to say these things.
The urgency of that, desire that dogged the body all winter & has scarcely left, now awaits the lilacs, their small white bunches.
As if their posies will light up the curious old intentional bruise.
Adjective, adjective, adjective, noun! 3 Or just, lilac moon.
What we must, & cannot, excise from the head.
Her hand holding, oh, The New Path to the Waterfall? Or the time I walked in too quickly, looked up at her shirtless, grinning.
Pulling her down into the front of me, silly! Sitting down sudden to make a lap for her.
Kissing the back of her leg.
4 Actually the leg kiss was a dream, later enacted we laughed at it, why didn't you do it she said when you thought of it.
The excisable thought, later desired or necessary.
Or shuddered at, in memory.
Later, it is repeated for the cameras with such unease.
& now, stuck in the head.
Like running the motorcycle full-tilt into the hay bales.
What is the motorcycle doing in the poem A.
It's an image, E.
said back.
It's a crash in the head, she said.
It's a real motorcycle.
Afterthought 1 0 excise this: her back turned, she concentrates on something in a kitchen sink, & I sit behind her, running my fingers on the table edge.
0 excise this.
Afterthought 2 & after, excise, excise.
If the source of the pain could be located using geological survey equipment.
Into the sedimentary layers, the slippage, the surge of the igneous intrusion.
Or the flat bottom of the former sea I grew up on, Running the motorcycle into the round bay bales.
Hay grass poking the skin.
The back wet.
Hey, I shouted, Her back turned to me, its location now visible only in the head.
When I can't stand it, I invent anything, even memories.
She gets up, hair stuck with hay.
I invented this.

Poem by Erin Moure
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