a map of flashes I imagine seen in your mind while you die la petite mort

 

 

Beneath hallowed

Skin

I

Struck the strings

That droplets of sweat

Played by Italian bow

Tip and heel

To the tune of

Bruised berries and

Handstands under

Sugar Maple trees

In Blue Ridge Mountains

Peak under the truss

Of the trust built between

Belgian linen sheets

Highest count of thread

Sewn into the fabric of rigid

Crow foot eyes searing

Into vandal teens

Plastering graffitied planks

Of ships built back

Up in Belfast through

Dublin catch

A quip from the tap

Pouring dry glass and thimble

Wrapped around my little finger

Quivering at the sight of bareness

With temperatures as low as the speed limit

Quiet back road,

Georgia slow as

The Siberian cold

Flowing through windows touch

Warm heat of

Basement stoves,

Felt the tremors of our bones move into

Up and down side to side

Through seconds and time

Up and down and side to side