Slapped Granite

You drew me out,
through dappled and pocked skin.
Led me upland out
By the place where they would interrupt
The cold, clammy granite.
Slapped granite
Scarred
In a barter to locate our passed.
I appealed to a future in the racket,
Entomb my future.
And we moved with the intention,
The intentions of those we had read.
With supplies and plans.
Ephemeral was the time.
You had me listen as though
There had been none before.
No sound.
Grit on the ground.
And wet dispatched.
Sedimenting company engraves.
Now clotted with residue.
We stalked a line in the padded sod leaves.
Curved to the overpass.
And hung we,
Peered for the edge
At the outrage of our urge.
We retreat and meander,
Once more, to the eaves.
You would covet from me
And elicit my catholic shame.
Deftly.

Liquored and Split

A crescent pitch
Swing from the beam
And other nightly shenanigans
Which we committed.

A forlorn tale
We each drawled
Confessions on clear nights
Into crisp moon air.

The last drop lingered
In conflict with your tongue
Drawn out descriptions
And escaped words.

Until
Into the stupor
They fell, tumbled
And dreamt upon
The galvanized bond.

Three Doors

Grip behind my knee,
curtly and firmly.
And we turn our gaze to the rolling,
Tree coated landscape.
The dirty, clogging smoke
Hangs low above
As the horizon smoulders.

You are the heavy,
Hanging heat of the evening
And I am the east.

Resolute

Pensive and suited
The glassy eyes searched
To save pride.

The warmth drained from
My gripping fingers
As though
Through a vacuum
Pulling heat
He would draw it all away
As he went.

The image rests with me now
Slack, unburdened.

Stories of elders enlivened
As this is how one can live
And as he made me, us.
Never drink water from the hot tap.

Starched Rabbat

I saw a priest rushing yesterday
Through town.
How queer.
When I told you
You agreed
And recalled how cold it has become.
It has become cold.
Colder than a brass knuckle
Held aloft
Above a grave.
And this season that priest will stand
Aloft
Above this grave.
It will.
As it was
It will be again.

Twenty-three Days

Hopelessly subject to what has been deemed
Rallying against the force decided
The rains came to dampen the picture
And entwine the thought delivered.

When the truth deserves to bear light
The bold, static and leaded clouds hinder
And glimmers are grasped in introspection
Though hardly diplomatic and justified.

Number three, the shuttle planed and
Peeled the atmosphere of the countless streams
Swollen and gilded, the contents
Brimming
And bitter
And human.

TarMacAdam

Through the homes of France
and upon which I gazed.
A mammoth journey across tonic land.
Where black butterflies laze
and only wheels turn.

An insincere assistance to walking
Is fabricated and lonely.
It is this journey I have not known
In my previous life of homely
Mice and men.

Black butterflies and I.
In the torn, scarred, and living land.
It is unreal and sprawling,
And clutching the beginning cland
-estine
(the end)
The manicure kissing
The ragged quick.