I was pulled
out of myself
through a leisurely
upheaval into
a dome of worry
so comprehensive
that every
splash of blue
in the air
was overlaid
with punctuation
and causality.
Facts on the floor,
an impossible less,
no answers for what
and all these
promises, these
door-knockers of rain,
this news
that gets less
symmetrical
all the time,
news about
living and falling
living, sweeps
of flavorful meaning
in the tournament
of night, or today
when I heard
bells outside,
a boat on the river,
some cars crocheting
the perilous
one-way streets
that rattle
the frame.
You founder
on permanence,
on necessary spaces,
empty months
cascading
through the year,
mood, eyesight, and
that which
comes into
the possession
of the mind.
You saw me—
you did—
across a crisp plane
in my decisions.
Then a hand
shot through
the grates
of your
terrifying disfigurement.