Eat the Core
In it, there are many
Of hollow beats in an infernal cadence
Of a cold pulse, earthbare and drained
Of echoes long buried in patented silt and mud
Churning at the pace of the patient Atlantic tide.
In it, a space, grime-born and glisten
A taut respite for the taking
Measured in blots of suburban blue and white
Icing the swelling periphery.
To see it-
A throatful of contrast swallowed at the toll-both-
Is to become a thing seen in fluorescence.
In it, in me, the paper trails of an apocalyptic mess,
Bound and gagged in ropes of dust and paper maché:
A model for the making.
Back again for the rest,
To lap at the entrails left to warm in urban exile,
It is I and the astral plane
In which i bear retroactive witness.
In it, you, and the things you carry in your sick lungs,
Gather a suspension of questions about the fire this time,
Sleeping through the fleshy tar and tower-tossed rubble,
The retreating moments mean martial chants to you.
This place is waiting for your throat to open,
It means to show you what you can have here if you step off the curb.
In it, your syllabic motions end
In a disjointed crabwalk to the next howling subway grate,
From which you can see the city that insists,
With fingers crossed and a box of ashes,
That it was meant for you.
In, it calls for you to hold your crackling breath in,
Something more than vitreous air to mark your living moments,
Promises cityscapes of graphite and interrupted headlines
If you’ll just hold your breath till Inwood Hill.
Until the next fast break when once again
You will mop the sunspots on your windshield with your sleeve
And squint through the mucus trails of shuddering bodies
That cross at a red light.
In that, there is a vintage grace,
Not unprecedented and this you know
That at this temperature and at this pace
You will arrive near where you meant to go.