somewhere within this my 6000th plea to be discovered
is probably some sliver of a new truth
but i don't know where the newness would reside.
for i have been always asking, and that blankly,
to be found out.
couched it in terms of purple and red
the lush colors of static wet privacy.
or in the gold of a god's sweating palm.
the bruised brown fold on the magnolia petal.
i've torn the plea fresh red from skin, the medium of all my pale parts
asking for it and asking, asking.
but without ever
saying
shit.
desire in every color--
dawn-pale, sunrise sinuous against its landscape,
too blind in the blue sky to see but white
or hidden weeping behind silver and sable--
thick gold splayed against late objects
and then spread red strung on the skyline
limp in black and navy night.
but this means nothing, or
at least nothing new--
just that
i want
to be discovered:
a wet horizon
craves any light.
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