Tomorrow

I am sorry.

I love you.

Now

 I am gathering

my strength.

Whatever,

I say,

Whatever you want.

Whatever, you say.

The day is dead

like that tree outside.

Branches sawed off,
prepared

awaiting its final execution.

Its sap, congealed,

 like the words in my throat.

To the back of your head

I say,

Can we talk…

finish this.

Whatever... talk.

Outside, a dog barks.

Then silence.

when the day is fresh,

when time has passed,

when our actions over-take our words,

when you open your eyes... tomorrow.

Tomorrow,

I say,
we can talk tomorrow.

Monday Morning

It is a long distance, from your wrist

to the bend of your elbow.

You roll another whispery fold

of your shirt sleeve.

In some place over your knuckles,

a subcutaneous line pulses

like a super charged expressway.

I track it

till it disappears higher up,

to a warm, dark space

away from your blunt fingertips

to the hollow

where your shirt sleeve lies nestled.

I smell the soap from your shower
And you, my coffee.

If there was mass

to the words we have spoken,

we would see them laying

upon the ground.

Cold, stiff and unrelenting, 

while we circled around, sniffing; 

the metallic tang of blood in the air.

How much space would they swallow

if they had volume?

Could we move them, scale them;

roll them away?

As we try to make our way through them, 

they stick to our feet. 

Behind us they follow,

like a shadow strengthened. 

And what of speed?

Your tongue like the string of a bow 

arches backwards, to fling from your mouth

choice syllables.

Large, dense, and tar-black,

that stick to the skin and burn. 

I know of nothing else, that,

in the same moment, can be as hot as it is cold.

Later,

after the blood-lust is past,

strewn around are the remnants of this battle.

Discombobulated words, gutted, bleeding letters

going through the motions of their last palpitations 

Wielding the last vestiges of their power

before the greyness of their death sets in. 

Should we light a fire, consecrate this ground?

Offer flowers, incense, and betel nuts

to help them cross over.

We let them go. 

But, for all that is lost, 

something is gained.

Unobserved, as we unite,

to rebuild, repair

a spore, from words passed

attaches to the backs of our heels.