I was told there's to be a sky. 
Blue, pure and infinite. 

There are rivets instead. 
And paint peeling in place of wonder and oust for a godess's bed. 

This is before the chanting. 

With holy knowledge, I walk past the salt fires. 

My head is not low enough to stop the piercing of their eyes. 

Under my straw hat I listen while fish begin their journey towards flight. 

Death brings lessons for us all. 

Under the city's bridge, your reflection shimmers and breaks with each of the world's turns. 

So remove yourself. 

Next year there will be time enough to secure your footing. 

For now a few restraint will hold. 

Your presence is majestic. 

Above the clouds. 

With none to see you fall. 

None to hear the surrounding thunder.

This porcelain face brings light to my heart. 

The hands clutch a team of paper. 

Thick and free of binds. 

A finger. 
A second and a third. 

I may only laugh while my teeth crumble. 

It is your secret though. 

Something to hold. 

Tangible, tactile. 

Like blood let knuckles over rustling steel. 

I was told to be softer. 

Yet you seem filled. 

No more empty nights finding happiness. 

It is gone.

And that seems best for all.

And I am all but reading. 

Repairing your flesh beneath a veil. 

Children. 

And underneath the exhaust flows. 

Over the river, into the classrooms. 

Never weapons. 

One massacre. 

Something with cancer. 

Important now, the list. 

Those sweet and some salty. 

Never soiled and never bruised. 

No existence. 

Connection slowed. 

To a place of past happiness. 

A place we know to bring cancer. 

And weapons. 

A place to exhaust all your reserves. 


Do not continue. 

Do not begin to go back.

And then told this is why life consists of. 

The beauty is there and also here,
pouring to the ground in a fit of grace. 

Then exists an image to focus,
strangle and bury. 

Wind and leather under salt licked wood. 

The shivers and the ringlets, coarse
reciting numbers. 

A trident to inspect nerve damage. 

Twenty second synapse misplaced, 
the fire dies and a dark room
overflows, a place becomes home
and the lights begin to pale. 

In all these things there exists
a thorn, found ******
torn from its warm host. 

A level of love severed.

It is so lonely here.

A phone call to inform me of grave robberies. 

Just the removal of this leg.  One leg to find balance. 

The sea tells me I am just searching. 

In the same sea I accept your disappearance. 

Morning breathes. 

Your voice on my door step. 


The morning holds a breath.
 
And you speak. 

The words begin. 


Stars fall, breaking the cloud of thirty cigarettes. 

Unnoticed, they rest aroun us,
As anxious snowflakes on some Winter night.

What am I supposed to do now?

Now that this is. 

And knowing only there are more
moments to come. 

I am to be here feeling the ships

sinking and the lights dimming 

then extinguishing

with no discretion between

the two.

He's wearing my favorite shirt. 
And he speaks in tones of peppered loss and rageless loss. 
The claws click against the veranda's shade. 

His pockmarks glow in the reflected dew. 
So quietly announcing the sun's stretches and it's yawn. 

They arrive, my fast continues. 

Beneath the grounded carpet,
The ***** brings me towards the river. 
The color green surrounds me, my reflection quite to speak. 
I stop to look above and see the black clip of flight. 

I look to the paper and begin to finish. 
The ink runs out as I enroll in the water's treatment.