When the last ink spears
have dried
on the white blush of battlefield paper
sheath the pointed crossed teeth of letters
to whom was fashioned a vain likeness


I can take no more poison
and you have no more pigment to spare

It rained between the heavy blankness
in the fissures of a comma stained tear
a mark, a year.

The wasted hollows
in the vowels of your syllables, were almost a crime.
so I pulled myself into the void
with a graceless sigh
to hide in the drainpipe d's
wait for that  storm to pass.


With a weary eye you travel the pupil
shadow in a glazed nuance, I could never quite
find a place for
an eyelash moment.
Was it tender? or a bruised sunset
tattooed in a canvas of skin.


In the river running though the banks of bone in your neck
to the blockade of the doors of your mind.
I find the crossing point
at the maze created by your ear
You rolled the silence around on your tongue
a tornado breath amid the humid
necklace  of lightning.