i hold onto this bridge’s crackled post in an attempt to move
ahead. the shaking, a tremulous wavelength beneath my skin
makes all my veins turn upside down, in breaking, they, these
ringlettes purpurin once, now dust, discoloured threads, pieces
of cloth in tenter, dismember doll of porcelain and blast
a fervent rain of shooting stars, repentant

i breathe in fire, breathe out ash, collapse a thousand times,
in times of seconds heavy, with murmurs of my childhood’s
perfect quilt sewn on the inside lining of my being,
a leaking capsule, pot with living margins for mouths uprooted
from the tree of life, a moment’s flash, a sequence of the gleaming
given to soothe the painful after thrust

river below with mucky waters twirling, i wish i had a drop
or two to add into the swelling rise, a crux of bearing, screamings
of people scared stone to die. but roundlettes come no more. they glue
to iris, two coins flip-sided on inverted luck,
am i a rotten piece of rotten cringle to hold the ropes of sunken ships ?
i pluck remaining brows… a trace of blue,
in holding, my blood resembles christmas tiny lights I used to knot up top,
in jerky leaning, my body taking shape of birds in cast

this bridge’s other end has legs of wax already melted by a sun that rises
after the moonlight sets, in striken hearts seeking the poverty of love in guises
a simple crack and all my bones turn purple, like so does every flower cut in spring
a dab of black splashing my eyes in angles, this muddy rain has nothing good to bring