July 21, 2011

molecule on the frying pan




The Slow Burn






it used to be safe to jump
into where we had pointed
the skies in the swift
whipped snap of our curve
against the carved scales time lends
circled ends or just another bend
where moments we've held sit
emit near stymied wit
scattered like leaves
matting tannic blood beneath the scars
we've left, a ghosted Summer
bereft of visible death
deftly passing through our flesh
we might have known
how grown things would get
when to abdicate what flowers
then ages and lets go
and what weathers us
like peppers in gnarled silly shapes
or saged savors,
or how our thoughts contort
with what we flavored
in minstrelled wisps coughing
from echoes of laughter long ago
caught in the wind,
trailing into the fire,
bluing the edges
of ashes and ivy
we have fallen lively,
marionetting sharp angles
and carped angels
riding the clouds back home
and cutting the world into smaller
and smaller bits 
this is the price that knits
what we wear witholding
our light that pits
against our bones
against each other
in the dark
against this
the slowest of burns

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