Remnant

You speaking in the wood

You left your fingerprints on my retinas
as the blouse delaminates, wasting
relocated efforts, offering up splayed & runny-"
a pontifex acting a ballet of decay.

Pixels in the spaces, papered,
wrapping the memories, cordialement-"
I miss them as they go.

Fresh phospholipid remix lives
like Boho lip gloss in small drawers,
cast v-cut, Reaganite aerosol across us,
smoking a stem in Lincoln Heights,
three-legged giants.

You instantly see the woolly thresh,
the knotted club in gunner’s green,
primer for me-"
the pork squares crushed,
black pepper sopping it up with vinaigrette,
you bitching about its Wonder Bread-"
*too salty.*

Ceiling stars, outlet windows,
telling last night’s dream
in hard-cast craft glitter.
Waving tracers with your hands
under black light, in my face,
slipping past the gap-"
exponent calculation,
running pace at the stop.

A lazy miser, habitant,
pocketing twenties on the clean expanse
of huddled masses, mossed up to,
orb-lit.

You finger-shot the light out-"
I flipped right back again.
You said you were just checking if it was me.
And I asked you what you meant.

You left your fingerprints on my retinas as the blouse delaminates, wasting relocated efforts, offering up splayed and runny-
"a pontiff acting a ballet of decay.
Pixels fill the spaces, papering over memories, cordialement-"
I miss them as they go.

Please, if you find this, it meant so much to me-how it flew.
I worried you wouldn’t feel it, thinking I was cutting too quickly in the chase.
If ever I were a liar, I’d admit it, but often, I believe them.
And maybe it was that way-"every artist needs a muse.
I’ll try to remember it went this way.

So quickly you change, like a storm at sea-"crests pushing above, crescent blisters splintering in rays off foam, a caliphate rushing past, only breaking when touching post at stance.
It washes over me, as sure as the land’s grand expanse carries onward, more and more.
I’d give in to plumper, its sweetness."a palette be found, if I able to plate it, painting hung, vine-wilted, sun-dressed, dry as the day’s long hours.

Will it seem to me that only our small capillary remains? The first, the sept, our father and our brother. As so often I do in my time, let its dying chords ring-"an echo of the former.