1
Watching the threshold
as the season creeps in dumb
footed, the bath water
ain’t soup yet. The wounds
are still weeping and I am waiting
to forget what I want.
The counter rotation
of
memory into never knowing.
Why do I always blink
when the lights go off?
2
The wires implacable
blue light could be flattering
or lying but it’s touch never
conforms to warmth.
Worn down and smooth,
an estuary in reverse.
Somebody got the polarity
wrong, transposed a digit,
the syntax won’t compile,
and the iron in me refuses
to vibrate. This nearness
to absolute belies the
confession of desire.
3
I have been under your
cross again hoping for
a glimpse of something holy.
You hated when I wore
the faux stigmata.
Your flesh codified
as a dream. My sin is
eternal, a strung out
atonal drone. The bent nail
screech as it is removed
bloody from the wood.
My hands are slick.
4
I want to take pictures
of flowers, I am beautiful
in their captured image.
To be honest it is the only
flesh I am allowed. I want
to gather the petals and
throw them into the brown
river. If I leave too
I can be a ghost.
The small wind rippling.
It would be something to offer
besides the bloody smear or veins.
.
