Let’s be friends
Until we run out of things to say.
Counting things to be afraid of on my fingers,
My hand turned into a palm frond full of hornets.
Reading between the lines on your compound eyes,
That this is where we are to make our stand.
This is where we’ll hold them,
‘Them’ being the shadows at the back of the mirror,
Or whatever you like. That’s not the point.
The point was rapier-sharp,
Poking holes in the gossamer of my wing.
When I fall, it will not leave a crater.
There’s the razor on my throat.
The eyes behind the glass seemed blue,
But they’re quick silver, spinning widdershins
In my left brain.
My thought swept through Thermopylae
Like the ghost of a rat fleeing a sunken ship.
When I asked for it back,
You said ‘Molon Labe,’ and fell on your sword.
I found your cooling crater in an empty atrium
With butane in the air
And torches on the walls.
It was here I found the shout,
Like a Christmas card hidden in a stack of coupons,
That made the river Styx burst its banks
and flood hell to its fly’s-eye disco ball.
With the fires put out, it looked like any other cave.