Sunday, September 4, 2011

chess board

in a space
wholly between two steeples,
          the words tumbled
          across the surface
                leaving empty patches
                of corrosion,
                as well as conformity.

          picking the seconds
          -discriminatingly- off the clock,
          the air around our heads
          turns yellow and folds into our mouths
                   with the fervid abruptness
                   of a breath-
                         hitched and lacking.

the stumbling of footsteps
slaughtering synchronization at the stairs
       carry with them
       -so fluently-
       the clarity of a shell,
            the need for a noose,
                 the scent of a corpse,
                     and the weight
                     of forgiving.


wildchild said...

super love xxx

H. said...

The Weight..always the weight of things...laid out perfectly