Time

Our beatheart breaths
sketchy on foggy glass,
cylinders, spirals and arrows
pointing beyond this thing
between us.

Pointing beyond the sensation of sequence:
the rainbow was Iris, swift-footed messenger of the gods
or a kind of divine speech, or a
colored circular contractile narrowness circumjacent
to a fluxing portable hole,
grown thirsty, lapping the tap, crumbling cork and shredding everything
(a bad jones for that golden oldie nectar).
The feeling that some things endure.

She would shred us all,
to prove that there is nothing
no sequence, no arrow, no thing pointing beyond the naked eye,
that only iris to iris
could we ever hope to build the rainbow
with each and every beatheart breath.

I'm Not Scared. I'm Not.

I should go to stone
but then we couldn't
hand in hand
interpose, grasp, clench.
I could knock.
I could pass wall.
I could expeditious retreat.
I should turn to sleep.

I'm all
ontology this
epistemology that,
and she's in Texas with the boys
filling jars with oil.

I should go to stone
and then?
I could vanish
and call the whole thing
on account
of darkness.

I should turn to sleep
that cone of cold
that resilient sphere
that shadow evocation.
A power word
and she's coming at me
from out of the sun
a sobbing silhouette
a fistful of spiders
an empty gun.
I can feeblemind.
I can fabricate.
I can stone to flesh.