Again,
an eyeful of face breaking
young and fragile, toothless and wan,
oracled to the breaths of time
as concrete breathes through gritty sand on moist mornings,
as oily pavement gasps under dull puddles
splattered by straggle steps:
blind, mute, rushed
passing flat windows that bat shadows without glint into thickened air.
The cruel cold spring cannot melt what won't
but will be swept,
and lashy winds dash down black streets into blank fields and walls.
We are only parts of ourselves held together by incompleteness
our parts fly inside and between us,
their own parts dwarfing all things,
generating new dimensions that
pull and push and twist what make us and make us and make us
as we fly apart and fall into ourselves.
Again.
