pompeii

The moon still full, gleaming on the bones of the moment

the earth aglow in the imminence of this bare

albedo— a called bank shot over 

the sun’s shoulder, the forlorn witness 

to late winter’s wringings the truth known

hand to hand with the here and there, this machine

a dreadful sharpening, a narrowing by number

naming the graces of the ricochet once

the race runs downhill, the drip drop

drum machine drubbing the ambience,

the founder in the fathoms as

physics takes a picture and science takes a slice.

The days keep changing, today always the same

dull hungers and sharpened appetites, the marker

moving in clockwork around the wheel

the world always ends up, consequence and 

continuity marking exes on the calendar

page after page all aches and odds.

Oh, such breathless dreaming caught in 

the exquisite muzzle flash, the endless 

game of Russian roulette a bubbling of

hammer snaps, a flurry of flashes when

at last we are caught fully mortal

naked and helpless where we run out of road.

You can see the weather wander down 

the walls, the sky suddenly a crow cleansed blue

casting incomprehensible manga across 

the grubby ceiling, pressing stanzas through

the blinds against this witness, the circuit

words makes once the ghost says so

long, ash flecked mementos and photos 

waiting on the phone, the matters 

that prove my mettle all

pot pot kettle kettle. Here waving

tattered blessings in the chill winds yet

to blow, drifting with the broken

traction at the turn of phrase somewhere 

between the scare and the crow

something happens that stays unknown.

The rain falls and falls.