Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Sunday, February 4, 2007

Turning, I see...

Night is tight on the tracks of the crow
that are scattered 'round my lids
and I sigh, stretch, sigh
ribs fall and rise
and all is still close and thick and dark.
I clasp it in my fists, I curl my jaws
around the evening to keep it
just a moment longer.
I want this to last
just a moment longer.

a slight, waifish piano score floats
from the shamble of next door.
Washed in this I wait for the clench
of energy to come to me, to summon me
from this soft ethereal head

and turning I see He
like the Gods have scattered Him there
and I afford all my focus, all my vision to these:

a heft of endless curls
a turned down mouth
a blitz of sun-spit
a beard of pitch for nesting birds
a chest leaping with swords and Newton
and all about him the world turns
unaware that He is here
unaware that He defines
unaware that His hands can unmake time

can unmake me, at least.

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