Leaving Time

at the end of October I will return to the high mountains of the Sangre de Cresto,
I will miss you, but

in the depths of these differences, strata
of a technological multitude remains, and if
skulls or rib-bones were to

make a pavement of charnel ground vultures between us, and—gripping
the sides a bowl from the clasp of a dead woman’s clutch, then
I would be as guilty as high-treason offenses, not only

in consciousness but in the blades of grass which reap the tears of the wind, and
this does not occur to someone who, has
made vows within sight of the window-trust, laws
of which

are formulated by the glint and the dust which unshackle air
as it spangles through room-space descending, snow-drift
of a moment, in this
place of spiders and carpet, I soon will

evacuate the premise, a vacuum of intelligence, the
fibers of how unfolding un-formulates a reversing weave, as
the only knee caps to running forward in life, these things

are not stressors nor pains of the difference, these things
are not objects of cups and chairs in the upstairs kitchen
waiting with the screen door to slide shut for tomorrow, and not
allowing cold air in, but

are the maneuvers of exits from skin porous details, the break
of religion, the death
of an antlered mammal, now on the head of a fireplace, mis-guided
billions, and insects
more in their plentitude, to stay in the
way of a pond as it ripples when gentle fingers stroke golden hair of tomorrow-palace, and she

descends her wish, blessing
and prayer, and to not move, to remain fixed,
transfixed in a stare, would not be
harmonious with the chord changes of clouds and their multitude of languages, and the

symphony of our heart beats, of
you and

I must go or die


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