I will wait there in the echo wash,
levy time and limestone runnings, beneath
the clouded clutter of city-run water,
the heady bloom of aluminum and ash
on unbound skin.
You are the untamed wild, the unbroken
Palomino upon icy cliff-stairs and falling
I am running with it, pace-clocked to
pagan marking, scored to pieces and
in reminding, cast eyes across bar light
and the trouble pretended.
You are the golden plain, the untilled soil,
the Kolkhoz scythe running through it all.
Skins of talking drum lines echo in vibrations
about, aloft the questioning hum of light brackets
fluorescent in dead air conversation, the illuminated
dust dreary as untyped fonts, and anchored
in the curvature of your shape, coiled.
Coming closer, felts page pen tips trace out
a contour-crease how it fell in dollar-store
sheet cloth, in lampshade odours you tossed
around closing light switches as fine-woven scarves.
Your lines betray you, the moves you make
in shadows' pale comfort, milky swirls of
liquor breath into the failing light trust;
something else to unheavy the memory.