Never so much an orderly typing as it is a trashing of keys, scrabbled against the lockplate at night, drunken, leaving marks on brass.
AN EMBARRASSMENT OF CHOICES
Lung as stretched, dried glue - particles, hairs, things swallowed, caught -
and the sky tangles itself overheard, a tiger fight of orange and shadow and claw and tooth
and inhale, inhale - soot, the thrash of embers kicked up from the collapse - and cough,
choke, spit - wet, putrid, glob, hack - and beneath the drop the ground sizzles, flares out.
Masahide would be proud: when the dust settles - tempered, tamed - into the ashen kicked clods of night,
the eyes adjust - tracers against rods, blurs on the crystalline lens - and light! Full light! Wane, crescent,
and yet, somehow, the heart moves, barreling past that low-lipped wall, that pale oblong saucer,
hurtling, forward, into the long dark reach of tomorrow:
the dilation of possibility, taking in the long leap down,
and finding: the longing for the known
erased in the sudden landing
of the now