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.