In fall I fell
upon
the fall he filled
up on
the call he killed
for
In fall I fell
for

The older the hatred
the more deeply sealed
the start of the rust
the end of the steel

like ropes that climb into darkness
his hair is long and knotted
one hand is bleached by the sunlight
as it reaches out for you
his clothes smell faintly of sulphur
and something old and rotted
as your hand comes up to meet his
it is cast in sunlight too

His breath sounds like something broken
a tractor dragging a chain
when your hands meet in the sunbeam
you can almost hear him smile
you’re silent but there is screaming
in the bottom of your brain
your heart rattles like a ratchet
in your mouth, the taste of bile

Your blood sings ‘you must resist him’
as the light dims behind you
but your feet carry you forward
as if they belonged to him
on the brightest day of summer
the dark days somehow find you
still your feet carry you forward
your blood sings a song of him.

Every flitting twitch is pretty and bereft,
little is left when the dew is frozen brittle
into words, all that’s heard is the crack of broken ice:
the price of bringing night to the mind’s dewy light.

hot black tea in the morning
with a plateful of fried potatoes
sweet tea iced to perfection at noon
french bread with melted cheddar and tomatoes

banana waffles drizzled with syrup
spaghetti thick with veggies and wine
french fries buried in chili and cheese
pickles in a sour-sweet brine

cherry pie hot from the oven
porridge with brown sugar and milk
purple plums plucked straight from the tree
chocolate pudding smoother than silk

whole wheat toast with cinnamon and butter
onion rings caked with panko crumbs
chocolate-covered australian ginger
sweet crumble with apples, pears, and plums

baked or fried or fricaseed
warmed or burnt or chilled
just like an open mind is never empty
an adventurous stomach is never filled

the russian kept clicking his stungun battery
“now it’s dead” he said *click* “now it’s alive”
I memorized the taxi’s registration number
one-seven-E-A-one-five

the russian insisted it was a real gun
my friend, soto voce: “Leave it alone!”
I scoffed: “SG makes real guns now?”
“besides,” I said, “I can smell the ozone”

the driver pulled into a construction site
then into a place too dark to see
under my breath I chanted:
“one-seven-E-A-fifteen”

alternate end: enter home
give feel wonder roam

pause break: function escape
start over erase the tape

the minute hand is stuck on the hour
the cuckoo retreats to her bower
the mainspring has come unwound
without a sound

Trousers should flatter
both short legs and tall
hell, we should be perfect
wearing nothing at all