The Ongoing In-between
Answers, as they come in sharps
Dirty dishes, broken and discarded by phantom culprits,
Porcelain bone left for you to lick of oil
Part and parcel of truths gone stale.
The rooms they are all the same
Every body apologizing for its falling feathers and cracking joints
Every breath a frosted storm of white logic and curdled regret.
Beads of styrofoam held suspended in geometric shapes
Cradling the magic coffee.
Sucking at foreign words more apt to deceive
Dulce est periculum and for the taking.
The bar still sands, leaking sawdust and sweat-stained limbs onto the street.
And they sweep this side of the street into erosion.
To have qualms is to beg for a new birthday
To have the cake and squash it between white knuckles
To seethe in saturated vapors of what’s left of the glass
And beckon the dusk back from the other side.
But you, with your salamander’s limb, are scratching
At the fine print in a book already smaller than its skin
This new organ aches for an itching
And you’ve been digging crosses for too long.