Alt Air

it was a breathtaking oval
that sat atop the crown 
which is probably not
what i mean to say, 
but a shoulder, yes, 
propping up the eye 
of the morning
like a lucid 
	dragonfly
zigzagging on the wings 
of mercies and men

	{the eye is a fable and
	every vision is a fiction, but
	not every fiction is our enemy}

beside the specter of a forgotten sun
the air spun with the mad 
	clarity of a mood ring
over a horizon of skulls 
and saints, and the wind 
was an arrow that only blew 
	straight
thin as a caterpillar’s breath

a metamorphosis was occurring 
so bore the sign that 
clung to the trees like 
	melted violins
translation: there is no us and them

	{division is the curse of perception
	there is relief in intentional 
alterations of blindness}

it was a nu blue, alt air, and
the skin of the earth bloomed like 
	watercolor
beneath the curvature 
of a woman’s 
	half-parted frown
(her spine ran in the 
	shape of a devil and
	halted like chrome 
	at the lips 
	of her lover)

{a kiss is the common denominator 
	among all anatomical 
	times and spaces}