and then again

I’m never here, just smoke
and blood and bones,
coasting along on
context clues and
the myth of free will.
Late night occlusions,
bookmark letters,
the folded through
sparks gone cold.
The night is always
this way and tomorrow’s
in on the joke.

Wan light and brittle screens,
these sign from distant shore,
symbols set in symbols,
moon and finger plucked
among the multitudes,
a number to pick
a magic hat—
the rabbit only shows up
because it was never there.
So I walk circles
on the earth
skipping every lesson.

the script

The words wash in all a tumble
the tongue greedy to start
its saying sos, the breath slick,
spit shined bright and pretty
the meaning always ready
to give way. They arrive

hard-eyed and soft hearted,
the cold release of so much sky
in their last gasp descents,
both shot and shell,
show and tell cinematics
while the art drowses,

your artist’s heart
the stones’ own reckoning,
the language washing away
past your battle scars and
animal habits, spoken in
the order of impact.

eve

The floors creak and the attic skitters,
the rats all scratch and gnaw.
Emergencies are always cresting,
the night so slow and cold.
Crisp cement all the way around,
lights like the bones of ghosts.
Tackled outside the infirmary,
limbs tangled in the other side
of the sweep of the sun.

Hands held to warm the moment,
hands clasped to heal the touch.
The tree of knowledge knows
no fruit in the stillest seasons,
only the succor of suspension,
the blushing idyll swinging
careless, all bite and blameless flesh.
The stars unimpressed by the gods’ vast
appetites stare as limbs reach and
hang, the serpent says
“Wake up.”