(no subject)

It is not an absence that might draw us onward, like a black hole or the missing tile of the child's game. It haunts us without words and to no end.

(no subject)

Evening colors sneaking up like age
Make my own thoughts seem an afterthought;
Scribblings on the margin of a page
Chronicling the fall of all things wrought.

Those of night rub past these here of day,
Come into their own, claim half the distance,
Stalk from house to house to turn away
Lines of daylight drunk on pure persistence,

Settle on my shoulder as a shroud,
Twist inside my nostrils spill by spill,
Spin about my sense of what's allowed
Till to kiss seems stranger than to kill.

Other world where there's no world at all,
Help me what a me is unrecall.