Monday, February 21, 2011

without reprise, but revisited for lack of better words to send through the mail

even in the latest moments
of night, just before
the first -downward-
stabbing rays of sun
crash -belligerent-
through the skyline,
i ignite the streets i walk
with the last available slur
of intoxication
only to saunter off
into the shadows.

and still,
nothing more to say.

just playing card houses
worn from use,
identifiable by their worth
and just as easily spotted
in our hands.

the cusp of brazen jaws
grinding out the words
if only for the benefit of
aggressive sins
(found confused, confessed
and abandoned)
in the racket and blur
of an empty subway car.

the trains move faster
than we can abide
so the words leftover
crawl in sluggish
(albeit, foregrounded)
courtroom sentences.

a reason to
hone intentions
for better nights
spent searching
for mo(u)rning.


waitressinpurgatory said...

did you know, that in the 1700's there was a lack of coins in New France so they used playing cards as currency? you are very good at uncovering what's left unsaid.

seth elkins said...