Mystery

Standing open. The door is standing open.
Standing open.
Standing open.
Standing open.
Standing open.
The door is standing open for five months.
Five months. One, two, three, four, five.
Then it closes.
A month later,
you walk by.

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

Sister Ghost

In this afternoon sky
I can see you
half-sunk in blue,
but not the blue of water.
You are immersed in a pale color
somewhat milky,
somewhat steely.

You float in the east.
You must be rising,
but you seem to be sinking,
your light worn thin as gauze.
A half-faced ghost staring at me
with one eye.

Rising,
sinking,
what does that matter to a planet?
You will still be here
when I am a ghost
and less than a ghost.
When I am forgotten bones,
forgotten dust.

But O Sister Ghost,
is that not vanity and illusion?
As long as you are here
I will be here.
Not one of my atoms pulverized,
not a single one lost.
Not even the atoms of the host
of living beings
who are guests of my body.

Once we were all some other star
or some other moon,
and someday
we will become other things.
Dirt, stone, grass,
another bug,
another beast,
another digestive tract.
Other blood,
other sap,
all of us still here,
dwelling in the same place,
as distant from you as I am now.

But O Sister Ghost,
I have such distances within me
that would dwarf the distance between us,
and are dwarfed by the distance
we both have yet to travel.

© 2013 lcmt