scales like pyrenees

transitional. on the way from there
to here. the mountains
not mountains, but more.


it's not like my floors aren't full of ash.
potential reaching in for the last draught.
age reveals itself in cold water bedsheets.

i thought of the places
you wanted to keep
sacred and gave you
lyricism and scalpel.

i thought of blue and couldn't recall
your eyes.hidden behind my closed lids.

i thought of a metaphor
for stretch, a wooden floor
the limber curve of linoleum

tired of thought i let yours
be mine. how puny
slavery's desires.

undone for the last time
relative third strike.
without even booze for excuse
just the twisted mote
from which i yearned