- there’s an embroidered
twilight that fills
the crease of curbstones
like slowly rising water:
here
in shadowy caricature:
here where forceps unglue night from day.
- i’ve smelled small mysteries that hovered in fog;
scattered
like
a teacup slapped from a table
and
wherever i
stepped, bacteria swam in
crowded valleys; dreams
were
a feast for funhouse mirrors.
III. there aren’t any mysteries
in fractured bones.
screams are worth more
than words with one
headlight
stopping in time.
- in my eyes
i’ve felt the ripple
when
time hangs on the edge of the earth
like a water drop from a spoon
and hammers are skulls are
prisms docile and shivering without
light. now
memory dances in weakly gated corrals, waiting
for the music
to beat confusion
out of all the bedtimes in the world.