Bobby

There is only wonder.

This small pink flower squinting

at its own yellow haze.

That thickens the air

And softens the muscles

that frame

unknown lovers.

x

She looks at the broken glass

and whispers.

The fine lines burdened by true remorse.

A mass grave,

a holy one.

What punishment?

He was only detached,

an observer of his own visions.

Never a saint,

or Mary Magdalene.

x

Oh Bobby,

the drifting dust in the air,

that gave it dimension,

that positioned the filters.

A single body slumped over

a slowed loveseat.

The skin that fills

the space between planes.

Waking up,

the red relief on his thighs.

Every Ray is the same.

Prisms of permanence.