A blue cave sits patiently in
His eye, sits welcoming
Herbal songs and idly
Exhaling a rasp or two on
The willow, reeds that stretch
For miles. Nightingales
Sip at their little, pink drinks
And summon their obscure
Relatives who are themselves
Entirely unaware of
What the hell is going on.

The silver general admires
His golden chess strategies,
Neatly printed out on tacky
Paper. Tomorrow the invasion.
Tomorrow those
Friends of his will stare
Like a murdered upcard.

She receives the afternoon
With a  pocket thesaurus embrace,
Whispers an indigo X
Into his reddened ears.
Intelligence penetrates uncertainty
Uncertainty staggers back home.

Tastes iron.
Smells iron.
Feels iron.
Feels it deep.
Feels it deeper,
As it eats him inside out.

I’ve heard there used to be
A blue cave in those eyes.
But they must have
Burned out the sky
With all those fires,
Let alone a little iris.
Discards piled up over the
Half-remembered and half-hated
Songs. Not to mention all
The birds that used to sing them.
We never have birds anymore.

There may only be fifteen
Minutes before the fires catch
Up, but all his words
Would still burn through.
Who can say what lies beyond
The close of eyes save a
Broken string and a splintered
Reed? Rules that defy ink,
Defy Hoyle and his ilk.
Line up the minutes,
The fewer minutes yet,
With a slide rule.

We only feel how sharp it really is
When we meet ours, as he’s met his.