Just a patch that he watered every
The fibers lost affinity for one another, and the water ran
Through to the
An itch, a scratch;
A tear, a gash.
The sonic surge cracked in the air above my car.
Where are we going? The charge wrapped my chest;
They were down there; an absolute death trap.
Where are we going?
Kicking through the rubble of a project not half finished;
The contractor’s stale ham and swiss and flat Sprite giving up hope on
Tearing back the poly wrap, diffracting
Blaze of the aluminum cone lights; watching the
Same eight-foot illuminated scene all
Night, and all
Again. Burning its little fucking eye out.
Still here; the two of them. The charge releasing my center and the pressure’s
Gone, but they’re here to stay. One beyond my years, another
Not far behind my own.
I see the oldest first; the pair of pearly black mirrors.
Mass is space and color’s now the static signal after
Lady Liberty’s final glowing midnight image on the Super Zenith.
With a dry smack,
It pulls when you’re bound
And holds when you’re drowned.
She takes when you’re spent
And begs for repent.
You’ll feel the April sun,
And her ambassadors
They’ll ride the southern wind
Along your neck
And your eyes shut.
But you can’t allow more,
Just a blink, now, that’s it.
You won’t remember it.
Your ride’s on its way
Crushing winter skulls,
To take you away.
Mirrored to opaque once more, and the younger comes forward.
Saying nothing, he smiles: A picture of my grandfather and I, in muddy boots and
Fishing poles whose tips tickle the buds of an overhead basswood.
His long hair, on both head and face, shoulder slouched and head drooped to one
Side, not afraid of it falling on the budding clover. It’s just one weight, whole in one place
At the very same time, no residual dragged along the way or forgotten in an isolationist
Carpeted concrete crash pad north of the river bank, a black bowl burning a hole in the coffee
Table between my two legs; bare branches sticking up from the trunk that’s sinking into the plaid
The smile shrugs from his face.
Trees like fragile black fingers in a lake of watercolor fire in the sky; so many starving hands
Reaching up into the flames.
They blend once the flame’s cool; the persistent reaching, wanting more.
They grab towards the street lamps, finger paintings on the apartment wall.
I hated the change.
I grabbed for his hand through the plaid enveloping him, but he never grabbed back.
And now he’s down there; an absolute death trap.
The city truck pulled up on Monday morning, and planted a maple tree.
I thanked them, but they said it was standard. They said it was easy because the
Mud was so malleable.
It didn’t scrape or reach for the sun, but it rather just let it