Where goes and is
gone to the streams and stones and fish
drops of orange and black candle wax
in aqueous flight
darting to and gone in a
blink without aperture and f stop.
There lies the remains of a day,
a week, lost to understatement and understanding
unrealized and what I've wanted
to show you
in the longest hours of my life
I cannot give paint to
and instead will
no more seek to give movement
to the atom and spring and vibrancy
latent and whispering
cool lipped to the hairs
at the nape of my neck so caught.
You've known the thrill of trickling thoughts
winding electric in the lossy.
Winding blind and static
before the touch of bathed and water napped
fingertips on the spaces of us
beholden to cotton and ester cloth
in the draining light of day.
I will tell you where I am
because I cannot show you
what I feel inside
the space of a world
beyond the space of seconds
that deign to capture and yield
to the cast net of voice.
