The Chat Room
These are loose connections:
the filament friends that dare the line vibrations
high above the nets; tiny connections of light
that hover in our auras like love,
both cradling cup and end,
that tie themselves approximately
to where they go as sky,
to what they believe sky is,
to what we believe we mean.
We go there when we want,
though freshness may angle off the course.
We bookmark like the lover who must touch,
the second time, the same sweet place,
once more
before the thrill of feet behind
clears the screen.
He feigns himself asleep, his unedited elsewhere
naked in the print and pale.
But before all this begins,
the hard and soft, the drive and all it is,
die, a blanked square;
desire, and the now drying seed of it,
a mote within the eye of universal access.
The Forge
The steel of water
was like the sky.
Fingers
emerged from my glove,
anemones backing
into my wrist,
docking in grey
there.
A lash
fell onto my face;
it was all there was
to see.
I erased in sections
like Kansas;
a stiffening wind
drove curls like nails
into a wall.
My feel were the cold
and buckle
of streets,
my knees a crimp,
blood banged on my pipes
like a pale tenant.
Some alloys
are poorer in carbon
than others.
Nothing could make something
of me today.
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