Based in the bayou. Launched from the levee. Leftovers are we. 


Finite Weapons

Finite Weapons

For Kam


We will to crack up time

We will to split the sound

Bound bloodlessly

Our meadows overgrown. At last!

Our searing fingers have met the chill

Of the other, searching,

That despite this, us, it searches still.


As you are,

Agape and lockjaw broken,

a splendid mess of cracking joints and steam

supine on the linoleum frost

sweeping gazes through me, it seems.

To wonder at your open wounds,

Yours, a spell unbinding

This yet shallow knocking on the door,

Is to summon here your rotting haunts

To know it all and ever more.

Those who cross this into here,

A needle painted line along the edge

As red as the hidden iron tracks

Roaring along the underside of your forearm

Are promised a baker’s dozen,

Twelve open fires illuminating

This shallow grave in which we await the last,

our covenant with dust.

But you, your will aside,

Move me as a sudden stream, seeping

Latent light, soft and aquiline

Into the corners of my cage.


Here is the birth of our well, curls of water unfurling

Here is the virgin earth between us, consecrated

We are helpless

From living to live, enchanted gestures, survival

Half conscious and hastily carved into segments of flesh

To this, that I was once promised,

In a fairy story, a timespun tale

This, the cave of shadows drafted through with flame

The bones as kindle

For the fire this time ours.


As I am,

I could not make this up

This, I remember:

The starving beast in languor at once

At the twining of our fingers

Steepled in prayer, as one gilded plume

of scented smoke rising

to another above;

the mourning of fossils disinterred

Leaving their quivering echoes of pain

In the beyond of where we have been;

The oath renewed, brimming

with sleeping tears

now holy by their shared shedding;

The tender projections,

Eyelid films

Of the desperately banal and

Movingly simple;

This i remember,

Though not of a memory, but yet

Of a thing recognized.


Now, when we dare the trudge to the next mirage

Now, where we lay our bruised arrows and stones

Is here, whispers wetly, an open oasis

That none other but we

May taste of each other,

For a lapse in the swing of this blue moon

For a knot in timelessness,

We pardon these unlovely things

For they know not what they choose.   

May, this year

May, this year