When we speak, we whisper in craacked
hums
they bleed through our fingers in
variations of
ones and zeros
and contradictions flow between them,
edging out
the missed touch and memories of
swollen eyes
that keep us together, close
close
close between the yellowing walls of my
privileged entrapment
close between your painted yellow walls
of forced independence
but we are close
she wailed to me, the other night.
As she tore through trampolines and
phone wires
casting green branches to the ground
for their arrogance
and still life
like a wolf she howled through the
Caribbean
scattering the children of her tears
with only a thought, an echo of her touch
and I heard her on my windows
calling me outside for another bummed
cigarette
pieced together from fallen leaves and
burned with fuel flown up
from the cholera'ed canals of forgotten
countries
and we are close between the wind and
rain
close
close between the boarders of mad kings
swinging sticks like
broken bones,
guarded by whipped horses and blocked
by a teeming pool of life
close between space
close
she was not angry, ever
just spreading her arms over us with
fractal ease
following streamlines created by gaps
in our logic
by one in the afternoon, she was just
fingertips
tapping rapidly to get our attention,
but too soft for me to notice
by three in the afternoon, she'd
emptied great cities
and even I could not walk without
exclaiming her progress
between you and her I sat
sending whispers of craaccckkkkked
hummm
in ones and zeros, dodging the
contradiction of
ones and zeros
there is only one
and zero is not
and between them is you and I, and we
are close
close
close
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