all prophetic words have dissolved
into wax and thinner, leaving greasy trails
on woodtop tables with darker lines
like etch-a-sketch designs. your rhymes
are dried and tired like muddy leaves
have dragged back with me from ballroom waxed floors
with crystal chandeliers spreading light, thin like
butter and jam on bread i had this morning with tea.

kitchen windows aren't for decoration
because there's distraction in the way glass works,
with its ability to seclude and include what is out, in.
i had a desert once and traded it in for an iron.
heat followed behind you with icey steps
and silk slopes tracing back. i tried
to chase you down, barefooted with a smile, bleeding on
those prismatic breadcrumbs, dirtying the spaces you created
void of mess and the elements that cause disorderly pieces
of you and i to accumulate like memory clutter.
the tiles show stains and cut coupons like excuses.
it's hard to break your conventions like fries and burgers
and east and west. but i'll try to for now,
taking off my shoes and leaving them at the door
as i take a walk outside. i see the sun shine and blister my feet
on the gravel road, but
this ain't even hard anymore.

when your feet feel across linoleum
or porches that sing anecdotes,
and we have no music left for a dance, this makes sense.
your sighs say that the turning of leaves
doesn't push for room in all the speech clinging
in the walls where we walk. i got the ball
and you got the crane, and i was never much into murmurs.
but the pieces leftover would make a pretty violin
and we could always get strings at the discount shoestore.
the minor palpitations have grown to echoes
that drum and beat against our pauses. this game
has soured and become a sturnine third nature,
washing down the drain.

10/29/2005

Author's Note: Alaina again. She's awsome to work with

Posted on 10/30/2005
Copyright © 2024 Uriel Tovar