12
Jun
09

Untitled

I.

 

We render them,

These sequences

We paper them over our

Tiny little cracks

Deftly and silently, they

Seep through our layers

They complete our neat existences

Bring a certain satisfaction, like knife’s

Steady method through fleshy pear

We are high functioning, deliberate, and yet

Time has worn smooth our clever ruses

Our countenance is pale and yellow

Barely disguising this violence

The betrayal of sudden pallour

And we are stunned by the grief

 

II.

 

We stand,

Red inked and stamped

Tentative, picking up threads

Of expired conversations

Of words tied to redundancy

Reborn as slivers of the tiniest half moons

They are impossible, much too delicate

Slipping past us like tadpole flickers

Too far gone, the same as five o’clock

The slow glimmer along the peak hour river

Indifference and the slow flap of white sails

Our own breath is not enough to reach them

Exhalations, jeopardised by the effort

Like you to me, at once flailing and corralled

Circling like a pair of sanguine cats.

 

III.

 

In evening hues

We are less affronted by

This city’s gangrenous reaches

The sentinel has drifted off, and now

There will be no record of this

 Just the wrongfooted shadows of us

Gingerly testing the newness of it all

Navigating the tiny cracks

Smoothing out the deepest creases

Testing untried sequences, new coordinates

Resigned to it, but knowing enough

To leave the remnants to the wind

Clear notes, remembered as fossils

The truth in them, long gone

Captured in erratic shapes

And the chatter of furious pinwheels

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