My heart is an arrow loosed
across the bleeding stern of history,
a suspension of deeds and days,
egg and oil livid,
a temporary flavor
aimed to amalgamate
yesterday and tomorrow,
stitching tight the corridors
the labyrinth of the color spectrum
makes of elemental resonant states.
A flower falls, too ill to beckon
bird, bat, or bee.
So beauty is lost,
conjecture of false pheromones and
Faith that the alchemy of
blood and breath
are always unbound from the arcane
texts and the cuneiform laws,
alive even now
within that froth of neurons and
clotted capillaries, the message transmitted
lingering between your tongue and tooth,
the residual wisdom of
some splendid kiss.