The feel of my life was an ocean pulse,
The calm rolling fear all foam-washed
And waterlogged to the same pin-wheel trap
Of memories vague in skin-enmeshed organs,
The vile hush-beat of something strumming
The core of my torso like a light-weight taking flight.
This dumb awakening a mere undercurrent
Beneath the lolling pulse-curse
Of my bird-winged heart all wet
With the sap of love gown old.
The dead poets all spoke
Of this awkward place of desolation,
A wilderness that webs it’s strumming veins
Throughout our limbs like some awful revelation
Until one day in old age we awaken
To our sagging earlobes and faded tattoos,
To the times on our boxed TV windows
Too out of date for cylindric measurement.
The hanging skin of our eyes
Pushing back lashes and away from memories
As if our half-forgotten pasts were something
We might accidently slip back into.