It’s always raining here,
a secret language falling steady,
collected in stone basins...
Vapors rise and swirl between us...
The sky above the poet grinned
and a million words spilled out...
Into the cracks in the walls,
crawling like ice on the face of a corpse,
the words come and go sometimes...
Skin pressed to a glass wall,
flesh taken the shape of servitude
and lungs filled with a feeling of dying...
It’s the open road away from some part of me
something left behind that I may never return to...
At great distances lies the secret to vision without movement
Waves crashing in stop-motion—the artist’s strokes slow, deliberate—
Press a button and the whole film plays in seconds
Millennia compressed to a bite-sized chunk
That still manages to get stuck in the throat
Though we didn’t need to breathe, anyway.
Flames pulled the inner lining of my threadbare jacket
The only cover on a soul washed raw
A trickle of blood from an injury I never noticed
Washed by rain from my face upturned to the sky.