There were a thousand years behind that hand
the cloth, pregnant with water,
hides the universe
gestating forever and always.
Together they press against an ancient brow
weary more from years than heat;
a symbolic gesture.
The way the sun hits the falling water
shatters it across the stonework.
At this altitude it looks like
anthropology screaming;
an echo of countless others
refracted exactly here
[None of this is captured on the magazine cover
only so much can be seen in pictures]
You sneaky bastard.
I knew you were there
felt you behind my closed lids (always)
slinging your weight at the ends of my hair,
but I thought
with my eye on you
I’d catch you before you pounced.
Yet here I am,
reduced to fetal leavings
and you drooling over me
through a smile that stretches for hours.
All I want is endless darkness
a silent forever
to think
‘it’s going to be alright’
but believe it.
His opponent – Dashed against the rooftops
the victor floats away
the punctuated fabric of their balloon
strained in its ascent
but the ascent is meaningless now.
His opponent – Dashed against the rooftops
becoming more distant with the passing moments
yet closer to him now than ever before.
Further below
their shared heart looks up from the earth
blocking the sun with her free hand
her face twisted
like a bird caught in the strings
the victor floating away.
The sound of warm water embraced reaching a crescendo of steam above the still surface.
The walls here are illusory
a stonework reminder of
(our options)
though stone can be broken
walls overcome
Often the only wall is
(you)
Your will
your means
your knowledge.
Here
it is time that binds us
the immutable agony
running headlong towards us
to keep us from getting out.
Every year conquered
leaves the others more pronounced
those walls
(these walls)
are real.
Grow Gray With Me 