Skin feels is a stretching world, a horizon ending in
Any possibility, be it finite. As delicate as the very
Atmosphere breathes eyelashes upon a pillow. Sorry
I’m using yesterday’s eggshells to tack up the
Gap that speech makes. Were all leaves the stuff of
Porcelain as they flutter ruby dark along concrete paths,
Were I wrapping and wrapping and wrapping, all so
Very unbearably close and small, still, I cannot stay…
Cannot stay where star spaces are remoter than truth,
Or linger in a sentence made of light years of sky.
I’ll keep forcing out of time, out of this season’s sleep,
To trembling metaphors that clutch yet fail to touch
Your hands, curling a quick point of flame as if
All lights were to suddenly cease.