Killing Time

you had an accomplice invisible in the domain of

darkness,

narratives of shadows desiccated sooner or later with light.

The death isn't so bad. With the indeterminate loosening

of moments,

the butterfly whose body opens up like a flower, clouds

broken

by an obdurate blue sky, the landscape articulating

pointed evergreens |

like green clothespins or a multitude of cat ears. After

time is gone, then what? Just shapes. No more

cause and effect, the lunatic symphony, a middle, an end,

a beginning, notes unpinning themselves like shirts from a

line.

The shapes are as abstract as midnight or sky. The

sequences resemble

a body of water or air. Your life is laddered with hours

that anger you. So you plead insanity to the mechanics

of destruction, thinking of the swift assassination of sleep

by an oleander-filled morning or your own shadows

ruined

by the ambulation of sun. Believe in the incongruity

of the open hand, fingers taut for a slap or a caress,

two sides of need, showing that what can be given

can be easily taken away.