My heart is a fist

 

She leaned into death like a consolation

 

Bored

 

But not tired

 

That was the problem

 

Would that I could show you how to live anew

 

But I lean also

 

Ready to be shattered by something I could never otherwise touch

 

Is it cowardice?

 

Beauty?

 

All of these and more and I sit listening, uncertain

 

Out of tune

 

But finding a kind of deranged harmony that speaks in the quiet moments of my era

 

And too in the loud sweat-stricken

 

No pure materialism can ever take me from here

 

Unless I don’t come back

 

Sandalphon’s eyes

 

Watch us from the shadows and we have naught but fear and jest

 

Thrumming in air