Shadows on the wall,
Where their cold hands couldn’t bear to touch
And in between these tangled hours
The eruptions of a narcoleptic lair.
Caught between the auger and the oak,
Sipping sunsets under cherry trees and feigning interest in world affairs.
Vague admonitions of distant gods
Who hovered with clenched fists or open palms.
Never really knowing if a gap in the teeth meant the same as a grin
Or if theirs was a high horse meant for the lipless.
Wandering mica breezes in solitude,
Silhouettes caught in storms of glittered dirt and littered rain
Watched it all crumble to ruin in the span of one thousand nights,
Contorted into a prospector’s hour
Spent counting dollars in thongs and gold on wrists.
Ticking down the thread
In beats per minute, on the face of a Rolex.
From the heat of a summer day spawned
The loins of a bursting frog and the eggs that sprayed backward,
Blurring black the green murk of the pond,
Enveloping puddles where muddy boots stomped
And umbrellas dropped.
Through sunlit lashes and weary thumbs,
They knew it all but never spoke a word of truth.