a chime is broken by choice of light.
A home for keeping your ashes’
slow eviction under
Tone for atonement,
even as this quiet brings about
the greater warmth,
your limbs are screaming.
Time is asking us
to lay our clay against the mountain,
I’m all for taking up requests.
Light of sharpened smiles,
light of arrogant glimmer.
The city glutton spits hungry,
checking its navel for celluloid
As rhinestone for the vomitorium,
the sixth star denies entrance;
blue assignment of exit-wound red,
lest your chocolate tempers
your spices tuft its corners
and you never rival mirrors facing west.
Elixir of lost calls,
into the night withdrawn.
To know him is to love what never blooms,
to love what has too little shape to hate.
Thought for a pouring,
as the stars refusal for focus
take to new lines cross a grin of brick,
new florescence leads to unfamiliar vows.
Follicles sting, a brackish decision
to claim antiquated columns,
the listless collar
tired of its nape in pulse.
What could not be said makes its honey
bled inside a sun burnt stone,
fed between this copper hour
and the thirst of hazel eyes,
guilt for fugitive water.
sign off November for a swan white season,
licking red or blue boredom
in front of sycophantic mirrors.
speak like bullets into each other’s eyes
some kneel, faces obscured;
their muzzles aim away from ancestral glares.
pick over submersible steel,
sanctioned by a capillary thirst, interpolated heads of state
all dead and papered and cavernous –
but, what towering of lead
will swallow our sunset glances next?
Under hypnosis of dying clouds
we wear our safety melted over sand-pocked thumbnails
of half-eaten apple pies, a passive spoon,
guilt-grazing tines peeking through a double-breasted pocket.
Infantile wrinkles win the argument
to lay claim to primer time, mechanized irises.
We cover our faces, pixelate our mortgage windows,
as mothers, tracing rust on their belts,
hang up their kitchen skin,
and vivisect electric messages from new antique reflections.
who will deny the ring
and kiss the bedside cameo
someone hungry for the image
without the mirror
circus in fatigue
wanting a mirrorball as dull
as its chain
as full as wire in our mended guts
someone to scratch
the coin for another mouth
and open hands
to have to hold the sword
the oath to never love
so much the sun
a yellow envy stealing our years
leaves empty handed