On her eaves are wet marks:
They are the veins on petals that have grown too quickly
and unsure of what to do with the unfamiliar weight of moisture.
From the spews of swans that have come for the spring and who
are familiar in their flight,
this garden was too small for their celestial wingspan
so she carries these swans inside her belly.
Wet marks traverse along your ear, an eager journey for lovers and
a somnambulatator’s whisper, thick with the miasma of moldy cigarettes.
Your room looked trodden that day, I’m sorry.
It took on its own appeal to you—a dampened wet napkin, an oracular note.
What kinds of maledictions were bequeathed when you left?
Not even Zeus or regal sibilance could have foretold.
Is: (re)collection
For me to relive your scent? (Mimosas tangled blindly) Your trailed fingernail across the plumbic walls?
Your unpastored weavings that promised me a story that
only the crossings of a thousand folding fleet could have surmised?
“Failure is never incomplete just as successes are never fulfilled until we reach our earthly rest”—a Solonian gesture you once made,
as your cold hands listlessly shifted between mudras.
There are still many kalpas to be had before we drink.
We
We once were, once are, were, are, have.
New poem.
---
You still dream of physical cities, their indubitable nihilism and our insatiable fata morganas. What about invisible cities?
