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