Thread of the Warp
Right there out the window,
in dawn muscle,
chrome-dead leaves are glistened with frost.
and I’ve yet to finish telling my favorite joke.
One about ducks and grapes,
webbed feet nailed to the floor.
And yesterday I looked right at the man
I thought had the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen,
the bobbing celestial anointing
only the comically tall
in its low dips and him waiting forever
to be brushed on the head.
I should love fucking my few-month girlfriend a little more.
But maybe it’s just the dying season,
like hands of a floral clock paused
because they’re too wilted to move,
anther and filament teetering on their heels,
aping static, deep-sighing on-line at the DMV,
distance of the next season
shoving us through skeleton walls,
long slits on the arms of the previous season’s
salvationed, stretching open, begging to be re-stitched.
Motherfuck, tell it to stop.