There is no miracle,
No providence,
That comes for a beginning

My gut gets tighter,
Thoughts get shorter,
Shadows get longer.
As much as I can see
The solid body waiting for me,
The tide pulls me away.

It will fold in tandem
With a sharp, unceasing wind
Loneliness and fear
The shock begins again

Torpor, kept in a cage;
The spinning sickness
Of a single day

I stretch a reverie
Until my tendons come apart
Compact myself
So I may crush my memories
And hold them in my heart

Will everything that falters
To erosion find me under?
I know it's star light
Being driven through my heart

I fear
that the world will keep spinning,
and pull ever more space inside me
through a million pinhole pinings

He pushes his throne forward
So that light will find a way
To bathe him in his druthers

Shoveling through the past,
He digs up every flower,
Long wilted and forgotten
His garden an empty grave

I fetishize the buried,
But leave them to their slumber
Memorial or catalyst in winter,
They breathe all the same

Shaking,
the moon climbs higher
Pressed against the night sky,
sunlight drips downward
If a thought could saw through glower,
or ever tide me over,
or ever bloom a flower...

I saw her back and the straining curve
Of chained sinew,
And I felt I wasn't there,
But burning somewhere far removed

An ache that isn't real or heavy;
Hungry, empty fire
I placed something with her memory
that had never tasted air
Realization of a phantom limb,
In the form of Baudelaire.