The vector and dimension of time has shattered,
burst out from its lever.
now memory, the eye of the storm, has no center,
its radius, whore-like, is everywhere,
And nowhere— waiting in earnest, as those
who listen intently, placing ears to deaf walls.
Who knew that we held it?
like breathe-play underwater—
and now broken, promises of forever are scraped of their edges—
Nicked, time is blunted of its keenness.
we can’t know love, but for within fragments
and refracted shards of time,
and woe and tragedy be fallen unto us— the young of love—
For each gleaming shard, each jagged fragment of its gaudy traps
breaks apart in the sea of rut, like driftwood and
hews upon itself like the chapped bed of Lake Chad
and stray, it does, like pander and lechery,
flowing carelessly on its own wayward path—
leaving a trail of fire and ice, a song of pain and laughter;
A scant trajectory, coarse and filmy:
a slug’s crawl across a burnished veneer— an alibi.
for each moment is a place never before seen— discarded treasures—
underneath the tentacles of eternity, upon which we gyrate,
like polyps pretending to wander, setting our own paths on fire,
using our tears as accelerant, and running through open fields
with origami flowers and pinwheels stuck against the air,
each turn of axis, drawing resplendent petals
towards odd numbers— and wound-up parallels.
colliding on the index of profundity, where
no path is completely linear.
Embalming our love in the marble column of youth;
and with each whirring moment,
each murmur of burning crackling space:
each vacant marvel,
rested upon a fleeting mildness drawn by each
ascent into infinity by the crumbling pier stone of a burning bridge,
breaths an elegy of past present and future, a rhapsody
that can go on and on, in an empty parenthesis—