these words will create an echo.
the scratching of my pencil lead
against the paper will embed
its pattern in the cosmic flow
and there resound, and there expound
its self in ways we cannot know
'til it's done what i'd predicted:
these words became their own echo.
hours no longer whittle into days
strangled and uncalendared;
forbidden rituals of a new dark Eros
clothesline sheets and bed throes → blunders in a blue face
collapse
and sensing your reversals, i’ve grown and grown impossibly old;
god’s bad math:
infinities as remainders.
however they lapse
i spend the better part of them
burning through the flyleaves
for mandalas sealed in hell bank
notes
for ashes of your epilogue
for the end of throats
in songs and news.
no one can regret their past
but of futures . . .
like when planets will re-purpose you
into interstellar fruit bats or thyme pulle
Empty streets are no surprise to him,
The strange kid goes looking for what he might uncover
in the spaces of the night. He can imagine his solitude
a cloak of invisibility. He has wrapped it round his soul.
It's cold. The frost teaches how loneliness, like winter's
chill, will steal into your bones, how numb it will make you,
how little time passes before you are able to stop noticing
things that you no longer feel. He walks towards
the dawn, a few coins in his pocket for coffee,
before he wearily climbs the stairwell, finds his bed.