where the writers are
Never Is Less
Wings of desire.jpg

 

 

 

 

 

 

Never Is Less

Than the emptiness I once made of it, your confusion

crosses the sands of time, a cracked hourglass of regular rain,

where you were shaped exactly the way I remember admiring.

But still, we panted at more than we ever could handle, broke

formation and asked to be wed in the Grand Canyon,

with dynamite for a nightlight.

(They're still writing off the echoes.)

Our professor once professed, in phosphorescent fashion,

"First thought, anticipated stranger…" Such was the way

I embarked on this painting, these colors streaking

my pupils until reality and its raw sugar content

could no longer be deciphered from the storage kept

beneath the series of beds I lay my length in. Somehow we

all assume the rip-off artist, the stranger we hope

will take us each-to-each, breast-to-breast, and hold onto

well beyond the 16 millimeter candle that flickers ahead.

Once the pixels forgive the confetti we've been riding,

they explain dire things we now don't mind forgetting.

An example of full disclosure witnessed since admits

the death of the Spirit left the angels in a strange position.

They are alone with us here, for the very first time.

Wings began to rustle, polling each breeze that passed

for a person's human sight. We became accountable

in ways as yet unpredicted. And my balloon façade took

your eye away, up higher to the point among

a string of clouds airborne blind, where the puppet pulleys

appeared, revealing we've been tugging at the wheel all along.