The Sun Chases The Moon

I spend a thousand blinks on old memories.
Each taste like cocaine
broken teeth, pressing
truth against my cheek, a cold shock

like this one – 
crying on the beach, sleeping in empty sea shells.
My mother eats her hands,
choking on emptiness,
on regret –  I understand,
then –

fireflies above my nose.
Bathing with my naked sisters,
collecting our shadows full
of sea water – and with a rush of the moon
a tip of years comes rushing back
and I choke, not on emptiness
but on regret, and I understand
then –

it’s the same sun that passed away,
roasting flames with me on
Sunday; and what does He do?

He moves.

 

That She Is

He carries his Sylph
one flight up, further
than his dream had
landscaped, by
seams and stitches,

a creation grows.
Creator, with his silver air
occupant, of matter, of time.

The Sylph snags
arid scaffolding on the way; scolding
brazen bricks, wrapping
sick elapsed silk strands
around
lifeless tower necks.

Her languid limbs stretch,
every catch ripping her
silver lures, bragging
that she is,
that she is!

And he climbs above
architecture; speaks
of the slight
that she is,
that she is!

And he climbs above weight,
above birth,
above death….

silk strands unravel
as he speaks,
of love,
of life,
of broken roads ago

as silk strands go
so do apologies,
and he speaks of milk and water,
white rice,
voids…

that she is,
that she is!