May 2016
I.
Time elapses, clock’s dumb head says it all.
Not you. To lose sight of. X is where you stood,
and this is where you will begin without my grace.
Imagination as toll, if a thing hurtling is to punch into
the wall defending you, what sound will startle? Imagine marionettes
moving to no strings. A god sitting on top of our heads, like a pin
to commence a fractal of dance. If this dance is memory, we know its accuracy.
But what is its color? I tremble at the thought of your feet
setting in pale soil. I may have answered.
II.
It joys me to be wrong, when the gorgeous agony of pain
is what binds us together. Each to each, the real time not any longer
hers, but mine of only difficult pattern. Let me revel in this heroism.
III.
Things continue to move as I do not. Starting at the center, sure to break
hem. I ran out of words to name this. Not elegiac. Perennial but short.
In all extensions, elastic like water. Hairbreadth as in none other but plunge,
drowned in a marvelous catch. In my hand, a piece of the moon
twitches, drifting as a signal of life, in a certain mode
of hearsay: in the night she thinks of you.
IV.
I grant light to things but they cannot see its father. This room is anxious of
its vicious clutter. I must move out, beginning with old paint, crumpled papers,
dust on the ground, shyness of the sheet’s accent erasing its folds from last night.
Only the kind order is to do and undo. Time continues from this intermission.
I write only to regret. I have so much to say
to you, but never to one another.
V.
I broke the news without delicadeza. This is resounding of traction. This has us
naked, crawling towards a predicate. A fine practice of
moving towards a parallel edge,
facing different directions when done.
I broke the news: *I broke. You amalgamate. Time stops. You must continue on.
Time elapses, clock’s dumb head says it all.
Not you. To lose sight of. X is where you stood,
and this is where you will begin without my grace.
Imagination as toll, if a thing hurtling is to punch into
the wall defending you, what sound will startle? Imagine marionettes
moving to no strings. A god sitting on top of our heads, like a pin
to commence a fractal of dance. If this dance is memory, we know its accuracy.
But what is its color? I tremble at the thought of your feet
setting in pale soil. I may have answered.
II.
It joys me to be wrong, when the gorgeous agony of pain
is what binds us together. Each to each, the real time not any longer
hers, but mine of only difficult pattern. Let me revel in this heroism.
III.
Things continue to move as I do not. Starting at the center, sure to break
hem. I ran out of words to name this. Not elegiac. Perennial but short.
In all extensions, elastic like water. Hairbreadth as in none other but plunge,
drowned in a marvelous catch. In my hand, a piece of the moon
twitches, drifting as a signal of life, in a certain mode
of hearsay: in the night she thinks of you.
IV.
I grant light to things but they cannot see its father. This room is anxious of
its vicious clutter. I must move out, beginning with old paint, crumpled papers,
dust on the ground, shyness of the sheet’s accent erasing its folds from last night.
Only the kind order is to do and undo. Time continues from this intermission.
I write only to regret. I have so much to say
to you, but never to one another.
V.
I broke the news without delicadeza. This is resounding of traction. This has us
naked, crawling towards a predicate. A fine practice of
moving towards a parallel edge,
facing different directions when done.
I broke the news: *I broke. You amalgamate. Time stops. You must continue on.
