#sonofcerberus

crows in a row in the cool gentle nurturing shadow of swaying chestnut trees,

sunlight swords pierce the bower beneath a sky of borrowed time

painting golden butterflies

across our cheeks and hair as voices

drift and overlap: the chirruping of

fairweather friends as we toss exhumed

memories and buried dreams

there was something in the way she

moved the universe through her veins

that made him stop and look and love

the burn of her irrational hold on him

it blazed like supernovas in her eyes

when he breathed her name

in that lofty space

between the city and the sky

not even a passing soldier

on his way back from hunting

his own shadow in the desert

could break the spell

not even the voices in the rain

or the dim lights of the road

or the signs ahead

could silence the beating of his heart

at the touch of her hand

the taste of her tears

and the sound of her clothes

partly cloudy

with a shroud of doubt

and one or two spots of rain

salty on your cheek like

great dismal blankets

of suffocating dread

yet some possibility

the moon was not full

and the mind played no tricks

as shadows scratched the sand

while sideways minions scuttled

below air traffic and fireworks

and betwixt their toes

the waves were not cold

and their lips were not warm

we were not they

and time did not stop with a smile

Night alone

remembers the games

we used to play

in the cracks between worlds

with the dust of the fallen

.

.

.

you will forget who you are

or what you want

in the fog of being real

for everyone else

.

.

striated

from vertebrae to ventricle

in bromide and belief

each one of us drawn

luminous and tenebrous

like a striated sky