Author: debjoel

Our favorite

brothers? Tell and

telling, carry

minutes up and over.

Run past the

bishop’s hill. Trace the air, blinded by

photons. Or remember

butterflies in a box, but

the box isn’t real,

so.

So stand to tell

the day go to hell.

Gather under

the pews while clocks lose track of time. How the day

owes us nothing but

vacated promises. So the

accident of breath

at the back of the

throat. So the need to have wings instead

of arms, an ageless fiction

inspired by hospital dreams

when the moon

goes down.

tumble into

you, hold my

hand, a sampled

time in simplistic

array, gone

to earth and a curl

of smoke.

when no meals

are left,

they’ve been

eaten with bent

spoons. and

our tightened

soulstrings hung

from a branch,

there for the

pleasure of extinct

insects. a mass,

a mess giving

shoulder taps

to the dusk. and

touch our eyes

when a truck goes by,

touch them closed

before the shudder moon

can vanish

into cloistered

heavens. before us,

in the before. summer

orphans, blind-curtained

by an incomplete

season. betrayed by the

architecture of wasps.

in a madman rush we

wish for clarification,

for manifestation of

torrent breath.

a call for destiny.

or jumbled

words that fall asleep

in the kitchen

drawer. where we’ll

still be at dawn,

counting hurricanes

and affecting

blueberry lips.

in days gone missing,

in and out of reason.

hour and hour,

scratching ephro’s palm

for luck. and hiding

secret diaries

behind the blistered sun.

shaken from one

another, borrowed

and borrowing.

We wear a wringing

gravity.

Our breath filled with pebbles.

Darkness, a weighted calm,

the lion’s whisper

that morning has lost its way.

Next hour and hour.

Mark us the way to infinity’s

settling mood.

In the end, all is never

all or at peace with

the beggar’s tent.

Are those nerveless

fingers

pulling at the storm?

Or impossible interjections

of doubtful purpose?

Or lost in sight of the

sentence’s end?