In here everything attempts
to be infinite – that when utterances
free themselves from mouth’s dungeon

it may all be but locutionary.
This is your leitmotif. To have your darkness
breed flaxen hair,

and in a split-second your eyes in their
deep epistaxis of blackness
follow me with the drone of such machine.

This unmethodical severance; something
drastic by necessity, but does not strike
with the same accuracy of necessary haunts.

Back when I was young, I had no picture
of ravens. You, screaming all across the yard
of your rawness, fracturing the morning.

The trees with their shadows strode
in stilts – the span of such winged vestige,
I thought, on the sterile concrete

was the virginal image of ravens.
Even the rain is able in that awning fount.
The sound of tranquil is the water pipe left pouring,

draining itself of its entirety. Fire hydrants
inflamed, grow jealous of such catharsis.
The bus, running over a pile of garbage, is never off-tangent.

I do not know if you have still the memory
of this place – if you look back too near, wide-eyed,
and surgery-precise, or if you are to trail back too far,

the settings will only pulse with a life you used to know,
and adjustments we are not inured to: if you are to take
this dream of fish out of sleep’s water, it will fade into a cathode.

It had in its forgetfulness, something still the moon is a raven
in a knell of silence. If you are to come back here, everyone
is stranger than they were when you left,

and that what used to pass on as answers are now
mauled into fustian of enigmas. The din of such
demeanor, electric and tense – so swell you can feel it close in

like some pain masquerading itself into
a close encounter with the sheen of pristine moment;
but pain is in media res and to look at you merely, a disappearance

      or a terminal finish .