last night. i let all the
cold
bleed in with the blue
sky.
and every white speck
sparked in my eyes;
and i blinked against the
bright
still it scratched.
and back back back i went
through
a thousand telescopes
telling me
over and over how bad
i've been
in the conscious never
knowing:
were you there with me,
pressing
against the blueblack
cold, asking
if the world was old or
new? (we can
never remember way down
here)
and you and i made friend
with the cactus,
the bluefish and the
rhinoceros,
until they turned on us
and cut us quick,
fingertip to fingertip,
and our hands
bleed as we walk into
heaven on our back,
wishing for some credit
in all of this meaninglessness.
but there is no credit
check, just me and you
and everything we’ve done
wrapped
into one garment, lying
on the floor,
unable to lift itself
from the murky,
dendron daylight that has
worn it thin.
(it only matters what’s
within. doesn't it?)
in our hands were
blisters, but whose are they?
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