Ashen

I went to touch you
again, after

the ripping scream
broke us,
(though I didn't notice till later)
My fault, I suppose.

The siren of oblivion
breathed her bitter almond kiss.

But we talked,
and the words fell like stones,
smooth with matted politeness,

the hint of waning silver
compressed
to a cool, dead fortress
of acquaintance smiles,
enveloped in soft, deep,
dredging folds of gray cotton
strangeness
and horn-rimmed defenses

Salt water tastes so fine, really.

I'm learning the different nuances,
the harmonies weeping

discordantly, the dark, cold
flavor of cynicism, frosting
curls of a detachment that wrenches
with a rigid desperation

before it cracks
with a white-feathered spike.





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