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columnar
the sound and fury signifying nothing
is the signal; they are loud.
they are angry. they are
as right as they think they are.
the columns are crumbling, the
air is thick with their breathing as
they heave, heave, heave,
ropes and hands and
the erosion of sweat and oil.
the columns are crumbling at
the touch and something,
something is,
something is slipping loose
stasis
holding the breath
steadying the aim,
one hand on a limb
the other in hell;
perdition is one light step
in a busy woods; one
trip down the stairs, one
careless fall abroad. what
will become of the twig that
broke to save an angel?
what will become
of the devil left waiting
in a busy woods?
Allelopathy
this is fate this is
a thousand small smells this
is the memory of a palm this
is the flesh of a dream;
this is inhibition. we
are small and sickly now.
we are not quite dying, but
stunted, stunned, sunning
our limbs in a light that
cannot warm – this is
madness in a sane way,
the end of growth,
the lingering belief,
the giving ourselves away.