Look, day falls the more you
look night falls the more you
look at where you fall
into day out of night,
out of night into day,
out or in, or in the out of time
–
is there a silhouette?
–
Or is the make up to the made up-set
by the undulations that feel both below
and above, the water’s sleeping covet?
–
Despondent eddy’s resist
fixed fist patterns
where your shadow
wanders in itself
in the brush tickle
of your fall, falls
to the depth
in the mess of time
–
where the wormglass sinkhole
in the waters mirage,
is a clove, stagnating
–
a thousand fleeting selves
–
that pools the sunk water to pull
me around the circle wake’s whisper,
far inside the past’s dark clog passage
of pleasure; my blindness opens out
in half-light, undercurrents of day fall
beside me, beside her
in the quiet tempest of this lake
where words are years in slake
and the choice my words make
detach and retract to entangle
the collapse of holding you
into the love of losing you
