The mending

I mend you. There, a cold plate
Above your forehead. I mend you,
Knots strong and forced to keep you
In shape. I mend you. Mind you,
Bind you, with my body dry and nigh
Like the desert. Pressing nicely
Against your soft head; playing

Nicely the plastic tunes as I stayed
From shop to shop to become one
Dear ghost (fiddling with the
Velvet glass till the very end).
What a season I mend for you: wind
Set, air pallid and somewhat muddy;
Shirts and wheels and windows spire

Against conspiracy. I mend you
Like I do frozen eggs in the morning.
Like I do proper conversation, climbing
The clear sky like Ashberry's comma.
I mend you, make you—it is not
What you are made of; but how you
Are unmade that shall drive you mad.

Dale Chou
2013-04-02