I. Weaving Prophecy
you pull me back into myself,
phantom mending golden filament:
vision revised through delphic swirls of melted ice in rye,
within the curled rims of paper coffee cups.
II. Summer Arbor
transformed new and foreign
my every petal shivers,
even leaves mistake you in moonlight for the sun.
III. Open, as
a letter, tulip, porch door,
the row between chorus girls
the space between trees and stars.
IV. Quotidian Knowing
where your sneakers wear out,
your Sunday afternoon self,
milk to cereal ratio:
this is how I will treat the symptoms,
measured in slotted spoons.
V. A Stranger
Once, when this almost happened,
like the pied noir awaiting his execution,
I felt ready to live it all again.
VI. Tragic Marginalia
When will you slip to the periphery,
surrender to an endnote? How will I survive
the scatter of cells, syllables? How will I survive
the soul’s diaspora?
VII. New Ontology
I believe in
over destructive mythologies:
the intersection of two lines, not on a flat graph,
but rather a sphere, fated to meet each year:
two points of contact, numerically distinct,
equidistant and infinite collision.
The earth is good for this.