By | 15 February 2023

I call your name and the century turns.
In non-Euclidean geometry, parallel lines
intersect at both positive and negative
infinity. When I saw you last, you were
aglow with the halo of new priorities.
Fear not: the rudiment of therefore,
the agony of meanwhile. We bought joy
from the black market of drunk dusks.
We channeled Galileo with our backs
pinned to astroturf. Lately I’ve been
poaching the green tigers in my memory
palace just to hang their heads on the walls
like it’s good feng-shui, but that’s just a side
racket. The truth is, I’m a stenographer
in the courtroom of loss. Good on you
for getting out of that gig, but I’m not
ready to hand in my resignation letter.
I need to get the whole crime down.
I’m putting bull clips on my intentions
and childproof locks on my promises.
My appeals are nailed to sundials so
they mean nothing in the night time.
My mouth is an almanac of auguries.
My heart, however, is a glass knife—
I don’t care how good you are with it,
you can’t take it to war.

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