Walk with me.
Meet the wall.
The wall is the end.
Deep, dense,
charcoal melt into
rusted metal door black,
the wall is grit,
corrosion tough
enough. The wall is always
paint red, lurid until
colour peels off and it’s
only itself, black, fading
to the end of light.
The wall settles into the way
of winter, first harbinger,
the wall is the back of the
fireplace, ashes rise,
last heat, the wall falls in
collapses, show’s over.
Sky crouches, curtain fallen
an extra foot over the ground.
Sun lies crumpled script page
in the prompter’s booth. It’s
not even bleeding. Timpani pound,
horns blare down last ramparts as
warmth disappears through deceit
and larceny (as we suspected.)
Smudged wet, lying like
yesterday’s newspaper in this
near frozen gutter, autumn
departs in sheet metal days,
abandoned lot surrounded by
wall of cheap rust iron, we must
endure even this as we survey
what remains, the dying of light.
Bike Night
Twin beat of tire spokes braid night air
into set of rapids a canoe would fall upon.
Creases of energy propel me deliriously
forward, folds of force comfortable as pillows,
wells of gravity like muscles from beneath.
My legs pound the circle of bicycle pedals
through night soft as sweater, dark, brilliant,
a night when you feel buoyant, lucky
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