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by the last tree in the last summer

on the hill where the last sun falls

on the things that at last mean

we are finally unwound

from the hollow arrow

around which we have spun

our ignorant lives

we leave the first last

to wait inside the darkness

where the black snow falls

like the last bird

By |

 

what are those things you are

by the grave of last impressions

the bird that can’t cry

though there is no now like now

                          

those things you tied together

in the last single hour

with that musty clock

and the tapping of some god’s

finger on your head             

enough to break a petal from its neck

 

that thing you carried

(and you were amazing)

the cage with a need for only you

when you opened it

the exclamation cloud

dripped a black sleep on my pillow

 

its poison stopped the little hand

that hammered on the door

it was blood shut for a dreamy carriage

a marathon of absence 

will cure us both

 

consequences became you

and I held my hands each day

until the flowers died

I ate the mountains I climbed

with no tongue on which to place

the flags of my conquest

the miracles melted in my jaw

 

what are those things you become

away from this and always

with your skin in a bag

and your heart no longer a heart

we meet between the wheels

alive and not alive

where there is nothing to give

that cannot be dead and beautiful tied