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Philip McKay. “Decisions”.

I immerse my heart into the deep of renunciation.
I celebrate the defection before the immutable
empire of stars.
As one who collects pebbles settled
on the stagnant shores of time,
I bend down upon every moment
to surrender it to the irremissible emptiness
of the stillness.
The things of the world quiet down,
I cannot remember their names anymore,
nor the aura with which they embroidered words
of a lumpy chant,
dense by inverse spoils.
I could return, but I don’t.
I could flow, but I remain.
Behind me Sodom,
before me the wide redeemer plain
waving its indulgences.
On its equidistant boundaries I persist,
nor statue of salt, nor absolved of the fire,
in abeyance the vital breath
and the quivering rattle of death,
in abeyance.
Upon this white page I crush
the frail bones of an unpronounceable verb,
as parched sprouts eclipsed
at the mouth of a deserted Spring.
With its innocuous garlands I adorn the lintels
of an abdication more portentous
than the most portentous annihilation.
I sink myself into its dark waters, inchoate,
without warmth, without pain, without fear.