This is the quick of our tongues, last gaze
The trigger of a gun
breaking through the threads between us
the Kabuki mask
the center of a bomb
Till it rests like a small seed, a story in your hand
This we give
And that song that was playing in the dark before I was born
It circles back towards life
Like a father
Look into the quick of it
The eyes splintering between teeth and breath
And that song playing with the hem of his shirt, lifting in the heat
Like the dead at sea
He sings it to his father, ashen ground and memory mouthing the tune.
Isn’t it bliss?
Don’t you approve?
One who keeps tearing around,
One who can’t move.
Where are the clowns?
Send in the clowns.
The picture full of time
Always carrying the weight of last moments
Through the gate worn at the clasp
Into the belly