Poetica Spontenaium 7.21.03
I.
Between the crevice of vein and clavicle
Deep, tight, and dark
A galaxy within implodes quietly
And holds you wet and near.
II.
The intention was to stop.
I didn’t. And fined with a fault
I contemplated those times I ached not to stop
But did.
Mercy made acceptance of justice seamless
Like the skin of a newborn calf.
III.
I left the photos out in the sun
Purposely, so that they’d fade swiftly.
As if memories so dear could be manipulated
To exhaust themselves and gasp softly into the mundane
Like the withered man on the bus.
IV.
The mist, while water,
Could not wash my eyes
Of the acidity of your turned back
Walking away from a July San Francisco Cornerstop
Another evening in the Mission
Without song or tempo. Vaguely vacant
And distempered.
V.
Quelling the sounds
of
yes. That.
There’s comfort in keeping things
unsaid.
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