On faceless cobble stones, I walked abruptly

with on foot on each eye, to a service to all.

Oh, no,

I do not blame you.

Is an artist embittered by his

wilting blossoms?

I have descended as such,

like Persephone in a black hood,

but I wore red today,

because you said on me

it was distinctive, your eyes perched on me

and I recoiled

like guilty blood on mother's lab coat

and equally, you dissect me.

Your hands now limp but

the thought restricts

all movements,

they were nervous and slyly prolific.


Oh, no I do not blame you.

Who do I blame other than saints,

with their weary precedents,

as if we have nothing to prove?

You are floundering in fancy

and you do not move an inch,

excessive dimensions,

will they rot for this,


to have sallow, tentative awakenings?

Oh, you issue disarray

in discreet packaging. Minute words, subordinate brutality.

You are sorry.

To who?

I have lost nothing. There was nothing else to gain.

Only this vision solidifies the memory

in blue scales that will wait,

to rotate and shine, click concisely

unto an idyllic image.

As the skies strut and barge in on this, with their

crisp whiteness, falling like

sheer curtains.

Their vision proceeds as audacious shadows,

but their hearts have knowledge enough

to illustrate your shame. And my cold gestures stiffen

their breath,

but do not erase, they cement,

the mythological mosaics. So

I withdraw and lay down the blossoms,

but still the fat phrases you encapsulated

escape your mouth, as your grave vibrates,

the flat, blank ground.


So, someday will you return.

Sludgy obsidian chiseled around my barren neck?

My son, drowned in a shallow bath?

What next?

Your soul will always be brief. Every dénouement,

skirmishes with rope burns and

overstatements. Trickle down your sweet, plucked back.

I suppose. find me a degree of neutrality

so I may conclude

the twinkling time span, from each shrill life,

where the gravity hums

of heavy meaning.


Oh, no I do not worry now.

Nothing painted is ever erased.

The weepy watercolors bleed into eternity.

The monotonous cramping,

maybe only we can long for lingering.

Part of the past, I exist

on several planes, but here my

shallowness is nothing,

I cannot accomodate the whiteness, the


Scavenger of soil,

learn your place, sequel child.