Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Light of the Late

Instead of talking to someone
ask yourself for directions and you'll be ready
to lead the parade into the sparkle of your own night.
The next exchange will be an exercise of mutilation
through deception. It's just a warped idea of the past
swirling around like an untethered astronaut.
A throb hanging on every word.
The sky is shedding fine glass dust
for breathing. I am really just turning into something
vague and musty when my hands are full of you.
The city is quaking and the Lord is motioning for me to come on
into the light of the late. I am not listening to anyone.
I am not home to receive her message.


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