through grills : 0.01-s reiterations of the consonant p
pop their lips against the cheeks of
the poetry i hold between my fingers; more a muted staccato
than the jarring of last night’s darts against circular seams.
to look up into invisible red / /
\ \ and back down at white
is just enough time for fingers to skim
across infinite pink doors
to a fluorescent edge, and
in my mind i dance the music i perceive –
now there is only water-wind through the
trees, a lone figure and her dog
pulling apart yellow strings.
now there is only a dim evening light
the rifts of newborn ribs.
under my fingers the moon remembers
its wax and wane, a page-flip’s
lifespan aurally retained.
and somewhere between crowded, silent space
three rays mark a beginning :
all Roman, all immaculate, all upright.
here the first poem spreads its limbs
towards the ground. For The End Comes Reaching :
an atheistic line slicing apart stanzas,
vertical, like the curl of my tongue
towards the roof of my mouth
in the anatomy of a new, new year.