in loose prisms of topsoil we fold-in
the dead skin and eggshells
we grind our bones into the marrow of our 'morrows
where The House is no longer standing
but the stones you kept for skipping;, now have wings
and your wrist is supple, casting out
above a lake with your Leprechaun palm,
your palm
roasting rough
in chestnut summer
while the nightfall stumbles
over bricks
and yellow is a fool
to a black mood.

a cheap quickening
of bleak starlight
and dogwoods, pining -
for a cliff
they could very
well fjord.

the speed of dark, crippling the watch

the second hand in my hand
and in my hand -
the Seconds.

II

just before.


III

we are together again where the Wednesday
sleeps -
on a pin,,,and little voices -
sing symmetries that have
no substance,
save our thirst
for blood
on the lips of
a lost cup...

or the songs
of a walnut.
it's melody,
an unclean spirit
bathing in
the tyranny
of love.

and the Nothing to it.