These Are What Were

These are what were elements but are now accidents.
These are what were typos but are now telepathies.
These are what were rattlesnake guns but are now drum machines.

These are what were hieroglyphs but are now interest rates.
These are what were microfiche but are now ballistics.
These are what were nanotechnologies but are now grease ports.

These are what were coke ovens but are now feral igloos.
These are what were forceps but are now Bad Advice.
These are what were ticket stubs but are now blank stares.

These are what were helicopter rotors but are now reminiscences.
These are what were powder kegs but are now entropy.
These are what were nachos but are now the color of settled smoke.

These are what were shrill bird calls but are now ellipses.
These are what were podium glitches but are now the sentry’s gate.
These are what were fiber optics but are now cardboard mailers.

These are what were billfolds but are now davenports.
These are what were verbs but are now a plea.
These are what were wristwatches but are now bungee cords.

These are what were guillotines but are now dogma.
These are what were graceless but are now a showstopper.
These are what were scapegoats but are now scare tactics.

Erosion

What worth it is, to be young
and have some breath
in your lung, some new moon
blackening part of the sky
so no words come.

Trickle the thought that
tomorrow is brittle –
a thing like shattered glass
but held in bare hands, a
stillness there, catching a bird
falling asleep.

I have in my possession
pulse, plus careful
rendering, a complaining
memory, the nagging
weight of missing limbs.

I have in my house no windows
or doors, or hearth but the
small sounds children make
in their sleep – bone-stretch
& tooth-grind, as dreams make
use of a day’s delicate gestures.

I have in my house a dull ache
that splinters history from
future, or agency from the
weather, as much to know
eye color as it is to know my name.

You’ve seen children hold mirrors
to mirrors, trying to find the end of it –
and want to tell them, there is no end
except the eye’s weakness to see,
but also hope the kid turns to say,
there it is, right there, and points.

Words come instead, arcane garments
tongues wear when want compels,
but words mirror nothing, are just
grunts or sighs, the muscles’ grope
against the slide of time, and useless.

Instead, think of fingertips undoing
the delicate buttons that keep us clothed,
or the still water at river’s edge, like
blank pages that want a pen’s ink,
and let settle the stones, erosion
the final argument every mountain knows.

–

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