In the eye of the time piece elapsed beating the click-clock of an echo only the irised cluster is prompt to,
In gone summers I saw my father mow the grass growing underneath the faucet I knew home
And when I took I the scene of my mother upper arms rose water whiffed as her hands worked lime oranges to lemonade
I needn't sing requiems to muster sucrose in my sugar cubes,
Or volt the Wells of my face to transcend thru pantomime broadcast from my mind's antenna
Word conversation in silvered tongues like a mute sermonising vowels and consonants in sonant row
...There my interlocutor never forgets my hanging palms,
never evades the iron fetters I cling with to the skeleton key behallowing the fell-mold of Man made canon
Those rays of days refulgent in hay frames
Dazzing my interior blind-ridden with the memoir canicule jolting as the pruned thumb
Yet touch wasn't taken from the dock laying-in the senses
Touch is still mine
Aquiver to make landscapes out of erased dates and torn card stamps
I still reach in the dark for a bag full of needles that dimple a wasp's horn under my cuticle
An upward spine feather belonging to the acephalic swan swimming in rings
The paddling sheel to the scarlet swale covering the bank hem_ the elbow of my hand.
But touch is touch
Aroused, snared in sulphuric acid or a daffodil's prick
Fret not; loss makes out a jewel from a hanging noose,
makes out most sapphire velvet for skin from the deposit of a killing with just the luster's hanger as witness
To the liturgy taking place inside a maimed cot that even god cannot gladden
The tape is a stirer that inspire the stains on my heart to grow purer;
A black eyed sun arching me breast to breast, throat to the warm nest of sin
A paramount opening that cleaves to shut me with bolts
"Close this gist of madness you've done pretend wagering the parody of travesty"
But who'll say that I've never been taught acting ? What's a theater ?
12/2/2024
