we were too late to you

I imagine my bones breaking -
as if I could feel it

the same note I keep chasing,

the same tone
intonating touch

we were too late to you

it roped you in,
tired you quick
slick and quiet
going slack
into that subterfuge
of thick, dark ooze
sleazing up past your feet
to your knees
that sick, black mire
so much like ink

climbing up through your pores,
into your mouth, your nostrils,
in-between your teeth
with a gurgle and a sputtering

obscuring all of you, anything that I could see

the swathe
the death of your good

where no-one can sort you from the muck -
where no-one should

no-one human

we were too late to you

I imagine my bones breaking
as if I could feel it

from my one day in the centrifuge,
the same note I keep waking to,

the same tone, too -
insensate;
it is rushing like so much blood

only so much I can lose

no-more-touch

I hate the taste,

like pennies and dimes

and

I was too late

God,

good God,

I was too late

wonder is reserved
for nights far beyond the snatching of time
separate from even a catch, a breath, a whiff of it
the death of your good
no peripheral view
the clock so like the centrifuge

none such, because tonight
my head is bobbing on the reservoir -
the waters,
long removed from me

a breath in, just until its dousing me

I breathe unlike you
I breathe, unlike you

it roped you in
tired you quick

as such, too easy
to be too late

Good, good God

far too late

I rush back and forth where it's wet,
in the muck, in the rain -
find good, pretty things in the mud

like flowers in sediment,
stones I'll never wash

imagine my bones breaking
imagine me under the cloche

I would never clean you up -
what a charade,
because I was too late

you decided to give in and now look at what you've started -
here in the halves, and halves, and halves of you

where nothing's left

stunted sot
in deep misuse

in force, and sense, and centrifugal view
you lowered your head for that breath-stealing noose

imagine if I never knew!

God,

imagine if I knew before the bruise

before the bells sounded
under my dress
inside my head

imagine me under the cloche
the bells spurring, jarring off notes

the same I keep chasing,

the same tones -
intonating touch

the same God-awful rush

we were too late
30 years too late

climbing up through your pores,
into your mouth, your nostrils
in-between your teeth

the teeth I think of,
smiling

but you can't see, and won't say anything
long gone in the ink

the letters that cocoon drips off,
squelches,
scrawls to me

in the rain and mud and sloshing sluck
going slack into it

and I, in the cleaner waters,
in the cloche

but imagine what you could do to a pretty white dress, looking like that

pretty and white,
like white doves' feathers

so I'll clean up the same way I used to
cover every bit of flesh

and somewhere inside of the sludge
you could call it your brand-new skin
take-it-or-leave-it

but you say nothing

and I have no doves' feathers
only pennies and dimes
and a couple of dirt-caked treasures

and the ever-present, subtle sense of motion
that I will never lose
from my one day in the centrifuge

the same God-awful rush of notes, and

going slack
into that subterfuge

I decide,
our eyes will close before that part -
always

and the child in me whines

we were too late to you

her sweater was white.

white.

I go in, I come out

I go in, I come out, I go in —

white,

white,

white,

white,

red,

red,

red,

red,

black,

black,
­
black,

black

my hands smell like
solvents and

her sweater

was white

I go out to smoke
go into the egress
between these two shops
make my way into that little artery

the vein that splits open for air,
like mine for love
onto the path that opens like a mouth
just to consume

because people walk all around
sprawling about,
in and out of stores
carrying their crumbs and things
and it could be like
I'm on the promontory that overlooks it all, on the infinity of the outside edge, the border of glass, and they are so small,
such that they're like ants,
only I'm the ant

and they are not small at all

and her sweater

was
white

so why is it red?

was it always red?

I go out, I come in
I come out, and go in
take the whole cigarette in one long, torn up draw
and the next time I see her, her sweater is black

was it always black?

so I do it again

I wait

eye the clock

a group of five twelve times, thats a minute, but five times twelve times for sixty times to be nine and every hand just moves along, and

I take another smoke break
and my veins are curling in on themselves because
I go in

and her sweater

is red

and I can't stand it because the faucet in the bathroom is burning hot
no matter how far I tilt it to blue
but the metal is so cold against my palm

and the broom makes this terrible sound on the floor, like it's groaning to stop
and every time I look away and look back again, her sweater is

white,

white,

white,

white,

red,

red,

red,

red,

black,

black,
­
black,

black

and it's not the flickering light above me
that ticks on and on like the clock because
we're some one hundred paces apart
and whether she's in the sun of the storefront
or under the cold fluorescent bulbs
the color of her sweater doesn't swap, I realise, unless I blink

so I don't blink when she catches my gaze
and I don't blink when I wrap up my shift alone
and I don't blink when she's saying "good evening,"

and I don't blink the whole way home