the rustle of voices through the trees was serpentine

flying in between on a broomstick

lighting candle-fired branches in the

sea of dark and dry leaves that keep

my breadcrumbs and threads

hidden

I can't help but look left

while long words march valiantly into the field

before the order was given

stretching strides molding the Earth around their shoes

peeling bark

chipping marble with bayonets

shaping you and I

until paints run

mud capturing their shoes

for interrogation

I glide beside and behind
a fog gathering
where washed love stains satin
I hold
drawn tightly
swelling
The Follower my target
blasting out and in
between the graves of the ninety-eight percent
I breathe the introduction
in leaves inscribed
foiled
I am blown glass
molded in heat
in the shock waves of a bullet in slow motion
in free fall

I

the corners of a room

where walls shake hands

paints meet but never bleed

or stretch across the angles in uniformity

illusions that my palms see through

as they move to flatten the creases

making little triangles between them and the cobwebs’ Eden

like unfolding my bed on the couch

the only comforter here after the lamps say Goodnight

before I tuck them in

and the colours give in

blend

II

my makeshift mattress made specifically

measured feet to face ashamed in wake

protruding shoulders sanded at the edges

obtusely protracting the day into a never-planned night shift

midnights

where the hard-numbers and for-sures fall for the vicious

vacuum’s seductions

a Succubus, is the lady moon

for a mind weary and wary of

absolutes

Rolling Thunder cascades

flashing cherry red

veins into roots

grounding in waves

of freezing water

black and white birds shade

across the sky

while I

in the daylight of a windowless room

frame them

you used to come home loudly in the dark but

quietly in the day we’d be together

to compensate

we were only in love on Halloweens

you in those hundred dollar costumes worth two

in material and tiny fingers

**** rats and ER surgeons

to me with a pop-culturally relevant strap-on mask

Frankenstein (to the dumb dudes that go to these things)

that chisels me like a jell-o mold

that blurs her infinitely beautiful walking-away

the blooming glances pairing parting lips to talk *******

caking the ***** reeling in our heads

winding round the spindle hooked tight

pulling my hard-hat plastic-green face

to the windmill

I

I’m not playing here

this is real

like looking up and wondering a little

about nothing really

clipping thought coupons

into a phone

on the backs of Denny’s’ receipts

that’ll be worth while on sale

maybe a cradle

a rocking chair for an aching back

or a shovel

'cause that's all that really matters

II

but I cannot bring myself to

do what we (brothers) have done

videotapes donutting for unblinking eyes

blurry words, maybe

faster than (the) sea

mathematical and black

reflecting (truth)

what really matters

the violence of things that mean something

that pump the kroovy

that crumple old

inky receipts

thrown

III

they warp the desk

spinning the world into the anaphora of a pale blue dot

a period

a full stop

IV