Kneeling on the violet earth

If you had told me a year ago,
that my pair of yellow hands
would be lost, that my purple
and my white would be painted
into cropped pointy squares linked
by cutting-edge ambiance, fluted
between literary places, warped
with imaginary edges, bloated,
blistered, I would have known
what to look for.

I could have found iron antiquity
in broad-blown vessels glazed
to the brim with discoveries,
variables falsified and cracked
by fire. Or holiday corpses,
caged roosters, a solitary
living man in a black suit,
in a black house where
polar-blue light hung heavy
in north-south crosswires,
crowded with faint shapes
that might be dorsal fins,
broken oars, opuntia cacti.
I could have gathered
shining, sparkling, splendid
equidimensional particles,
taking them up,
throwing them out,
all the oxygen we could eat,
filling the blood orange chambers
of our jack-o-lantern hearts.

I could have exceeded your sway,
escaped your bygones, wrapped
your sabotage and subsequent
afterbirth in napkins tied
with shop cord and my last
undissolved sinew.

But you knew it all.
You knew
how to cross the equators,
you knew
what came after nothing,
you knew
this was our final year.
You were the only one
waiting to burn.

© 2014 lcmt

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