‘The Fabric of Reality’
Between the clouds,
purple watercolors,
bleeding to dark
as the sun escapes
the moon and others.
Thrown-up stars
on the raw canvas,
or a stage curtain,
black and folded space,
and the gravity of a situation,
chasing canned food into bunkers,
manned by the rich and famous.
As “A-listers” fall to earth,
movies stop production.
How high can you rise
before apocalypse rains?
Do you go for the marks,
reciting lines
through your teeth,
carving a smile on my face,
extinction, the last of its kind?
Nails I scrape down your neck,
trail like comets
before impact,
throwing roots and rocks
from here to Mars,
panspermia from afar.
Summer’s on my nerves.
Winter’s etched my throat.
Spring coils my wrists.
Autumn stretches,
and it is the season for it to end,
so it can—
begin again.
Just give me your hand;
enjoy the show,
as the bedroom window sweats.
Swaddle me
with the space between.
Pull me in
to curvature,
as I spin and orbit
the remnants of earth,
cinching a Kuiper twin
just outside Jupiter.
It happens every time
I forget my past,
caught in your eyes,
cutting glass.
So we bleed
on the altar
of our mind,
knelt in prayer
or at least bedside bent,
pure hearts as one,
but who’s counting?
-N&A