Limbs

Here, where words are waning
They move with shadows
Beneath the limn of the moon.

A distance -
The tide's dull thrum

The brightness falling,
Rising again
With the heat of the day.

Here, where they laugh
Keep fires
Slip hands beneath the mane of the earth

Lips whip words through the night
On sparks,
Stray embers

Tongues lick against the grain
Verge on description
Go silent again.

Their limits run up
Against the curve of the lip of the sea

Verge on destruction

Return to the tentative

And collected

Under the limn of the moon

The negative sun

What you lost me
Eclipses what I might someday find

A permanent nightfall
A perpetual lack

Shake to dust

...And Release

With noon arrives:
A high sun
The event horizon
Of a life.

It's been strangling you anyhow,
Since birth,
From breath to breath

Each exhalation a reminder
Each inhalation a tension
Which could never go on.

Laughter in the loudest places
Midnight hours of who knows what
Washing out real purpose
In the extraneous
And uncertain.

But this is all periphery.

Do not go at night;
Even an immanent end cannot justify
That sort of sadness.

Go in the daytime,
Go under a high sun.

Make one last move
For balance
For peace

Perhaps it will not set -
You can never be sure.

Semaphore

The old
Stick needles in
Telephone books,

Cry out

"It has been hobbled."

And still they speak,
The living.

Semaphore,
Metaphor,

Telepathy,
Maybe.

Lingering laughter
In the apparatus.

Between the synapse of hands -

A Grammar.