SANCTIONED AND OVERDRAWN
There was no taking back what already had
passed. I'd known that anyway. The lumbering
light had broken our brows as we spoke; patterned
reflections of leaves and trees splashing oddly,
I noticed, on your forehead and hair. That newly
installed black iron fence, so perfect behind your
form. The passing of a season, just like this,
would be a pleasure to behold.
-
'Come over to the this corner, watch my heels
in play.' I didn't understand your words and, gaping,
my own jellyfish mouth wondered what to say in return.
Or I wondered, I guess, what to make it say. Life
is a funny process like that - a part of me commands,
and another part follows. The mind is in control,
but everything else wallows, not knowing what to do.
-
Perhaps in itself that is why time passes.
We're lost without a referential edge, so -
as the sun passes overhead - we fill our times
and days with sleep and patter. Tongues wag.
-
Just out of reach, to my left, lines of people
kept passing. Art gallery denizens, weasels of
taste and fashion, high-line skippers running
a dirge of their own making. The city out
before me broadly stretched, buildings cloaked
in form and color and light of their own reflected
glory. I'd read the book, yet I forgot the story.
There was no taking back what already had
passed. I'd known that anyway. The lumbering
light had broken our brows as we spoke; patterned
reflections of leaves and trees splashing oddly,
I noticed, on your forehead and hair. That newly
installed black iron fence, so perfect behind your
form. The passing of a season, just like this,
would be a pleasure to behold.
-
'Come over to the this corner, watch my heels
in play.' I didn't understand your words and, gaping,
my own jellyfish mouth wondered what to say in return.
Or I wondered, I guess, what to make it say. Life
is a funny process like that - a part of me commands,
and another part follows. The mind is in control,
but everything else wallows, not knowing what to do.
-
Perhaps in itself that is why time passes.
We're lost without a referential edge, so -
as the sun passes overhead - we fill our times
and days with sleep and patter. Tongues wag.
-
Just out of reach, to my left, lines of people
kept passing. Art gallery denizens, weasels of
taste and fashion, high-line skippers running
a dirge of their own making. The city out
before me broadly stretched, buildings cloaked
in form and color and light of their own reflected
glory. I'd read the book, yet I forgot the story.
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