An Hour Unwound

	Casual Convo "Et cetera." "Et cetera? The end is rarely that expected." "Which is why one says so after." "'Too late,' you imply?" "'Assume' is what, but since I'm still your friend in Facebook terms, we play nice, right?" "Depend on it." "I used to. I might even try to once again." "Oh?" "Yeah, or not." "No lie, that's what makes it so easy to pretend." "'Whatever,' right?" "'Whatever.' Choose your word. I'm not responsible." "By that you mean you'll hold against me what you think gets heard or doesn't get that close." "Don't make a scene." "A scene? A life was more what I'd preferred, as if one word made sense beyond this screen."
	Just Visiting As if one word made sense. Beyond this screen perhaps. Across that threshold yes. As though one promise could have been accepted. Oh inside those walls for sure. No guards between the two of us of course there then. Routine as a good morning kiss as if you know I pose no threat. As though I choose to go or stay with no missteps to intervene. Like this were home. Like you knew I'd been meant to be a part. No stranger. Family. Except I'm not. You'll not know where I went tomorrow morning. I won't ever see you waking. This will mark the best extent my time with you might offer guarantee.
	No Excuses My time with you might offer guarantee of nothing more than somewhat shared pretense by which I'm not thought worthy your defence so shrug it off or claim the fault's with me, whereas with my best acting I can't be near good enough to earn love's recompense. We're sorry we're not sorry. In a sense, we're both and neither due apology. Would anything be different? We can blame me all we want, and I could even do what you make like I should've. All the same I'd owe you, right? No chance of something new. Forgiveness has no meaning, no real aim when what I'm really bad at's loving you.
	100% = X / X    When what I'm really bad at's loving you,    the best I do just makes me all the worse    the upside down and inside out reverse    what you expect of me.   Sad déjà vu    how we're divided by ourselves, into    each other one on one, our mirror's curse    as absolute as math.   I can't coerce    more truth of it than what you think most true.        And so we've nothing left.   Completely done.    Undone's more like it.   No more to have shared,    since giving all's the same as having none    and we've already taken all we'd dared.    Consider me love's void.   I'm not the one    against whom all your loves should be compared.
	Throwback Ancient History    Against whom?   All your loves should be compared    against which holy saint?   Upon whose best    must all our worst improve?   Each passion's quest    must measure up to whose high standard?   Spared    no mercy by whose precedent?   Declared    unworthy on whose sayso?   Second-guessed    by whose presumptions?   By whose litmus test    selected?   For whom confidences bared?        It's over!   done with!   settled!   obsolete!    irrelevant!   before our time!   old news!    as dead as you'd desired!   deadweight!   deadbeat!    deadwood!   dead end!   It's dead!   It's ended.   Choose    to live our love in our own day, complete    in our own moment, free of yester's views.
	A Girl's Monolith    In our own moment free of yester's views    secret braids of color bind a tight    threesome together bathed in blinding light    in our own dances hand in hand with who's    lonesome enough embraced enough to lose    love in life and life in love to write    abandoned stillborn touches of goodnight    dreams we'd scarred thick dark as one'd abuse    open face into fierce firestorm to share    reality intended opportune    except will I go? can't he? where?    you're seeing hearing cutting coming soon?    over the bed made home to our affair -    us three yet there beneath a rising moon.
	Exoterica    Us three:  Yet there beneath a rising moon               inside another's shadow made to fit               through hungry thighs, through open heaven split,               yet have we not the voice of ancient rune               within us?                           Their own one:   What you impugn               creates your only truth.   What you permit               destroys your freedom.   What you've made of it               will lose by midnight all you'd gained past noon.        We never heard a word of it.   They hadn't let    their silent moments break into our peace    so they we three quite easily forget    as we them can ignore.   So does love cease    in voided lives born empty, breathless, yet    their one must keep what we three can't release.
	Rejection Accepted    Their one must keep.   What we three can't release    their one must hold.   What we three won't adjourn    their one must take.   What we would not unlearn    they must pay homage to.   Too strict police    to run their's street.   Not shamelessly caprice    enough.   Not thought that much of.   Taciturn    in tune.   What's too unwanted.   No concern    for either our decline or their's increase.        Discarded objects' shadows do impose,    don't they, on territories newly claimed    so need must be put down.   Rejected.   Those    get left no chance of honor being named    except to gauge what comes against what goes    in terms of whose gets credit for whom's blamed.
	Love's Occultation    In terms of whose gets credit for whom's blamed    our bed lies at the eye of the eclipse,    with moonlight at her darkest in your hips    on me left blinded by his circles flamed.        For whom's intents whose purpose dies defamed,    our dance composes swirls on glides in flips    through open space.   Raw unveiled passion slips    along deep crevices on satin framed.        Oh wait.   No, my mistake.   That's just a cloud    and one I should've known's not come as mine,    yet looking up to you's as disallowed    as much as if our orbits stood in line,    so I'll fall to the shadows of the crowd    without the silhouette of your design.
	A Sapling's Sonnet    Without the silhouette of your design    extending through the dark across the lake    to take his shore as yours, he'd never make    your branches to his stormy skies incline.        Without the potion of your root and vine    imbuing wind and soil, he'd never wake    beneath your canopy, but rather take    his place beneath your quiet forest shrine.        I see my way.   Both in and through.   And out.    What's unknown grows to what we will believe    as sure as oaks from smallest acorns sprout,    tomorrow with today's past lives to weave.    To weave.   Yes, that I'll also see about    to give breath to all earth and sky conceive.
	Spring's Offspring    To give breath to all earth and sky conceive,    to bring light to all corners on the day,    to spread peace to each word bold visions say,    to reclaim hopes that fears and ignorance thieve, to comfort ghosts of all who cannot grieve,    to reinvent all garbage and sewage and decay,    to color in the drab and the dim and the gray,    to make true love the promise all achieve,    may she who turns her circle round to spring    and he whose fertile seed mates true and sure    fill we who dance and they of whom we sing    with life reborn in innocence right pure    to melt through bitter winter's icy sting,    for death itself to offer certain cure.
	Something Apotropaic    For death itself to offer certain cure    against contagious love's dissembled smile    so as with something sure to reconcile,    one's resurrection can't be premature    else one's again exposed to the allure    and tempting eye and captivating wile    at risk of falling victim to love's guile    against which no believer can endure.        Say, tell me where to find that silver charm    you always wore around your neck?   Your heart    is naked, open to harsh hurt and harm.    You sacrificed it?   God, that wasn't smart.    Let's look see if we've something to disarm    the threat to life of love's capricious dart.
	Friday, the 13th    The threat to life (of love's capricious dart,    its poison proving meant's not good enough    unless both think so) is (not up to snuff    no matter how much sacrificed) to start    (there was a job, there was a place) to chart    a course (and all the other legal stuff    required of him to immigrate) to tough    it out together, then fall far apart.        It kills a man.   Then kills him back to back    again until the man's past all unknown    and yet again until the man's lost track    and even yet again damned to his own    dark hell.   All voided out.   All lost.   All black.    Unwanted.   Turned away from.   That alone.     ...

pearls