The strife of becoming forms
a monstrous edifice that dominates
the image of the winter sky.
The reason why the image appears
blurry is that the pixels aren’t coordinated,
as if drunk on their function
of being one aspect of the whole.
Recently, I’ve assumed the role
of hangman – this page will be the gallows,
and these words each will be a noose.
Sometimes, my tongue loosens
itself to expel a rain of babble
so thick that it could be a noxious gas
hovering above a bay who’s locked
in perpetual night, and at the right moment,
disperses to reveal a moody stretch of water.
The wretched shore extends
eternally, it seems –
the moon screams from its charred blanket,
trapped as it is, wanting to jump
from its perch and into the tepid fluid
that fondles the sand.
Standing alone on a night like this
spells danger for the stranger with blood
on his palms, who also has no qualms
about leaping headfirst into the water
if it means eluding his pursuers.
The lucid dream of living piles up around him
with astounding resolve,
brick by caustic brick. The ensuing sickness
explains his hesitation on that shore.
What’s more, is that whether he jumps or not,
his ultimate fate remains the same.
So he waits, and he waits, and he waits.
The difference between waiting and doing
is the lack of distractions.
In the distance, a train clacks
along a rusted track toward
its appointed destination,
and cars are humming, idling at the crossing,
anticipating the lifting of the flashing bars
granting them access to the opposite side.