1.
Painted with a primrose pastel, resembling that rosy dawn, frond,
sealed shut for month, beguiling hardness, rash, decisive, definitive,
knob collecting dust, chipped, blanched, shifting away from his grip,
his lips garble, parched, bridging the empty nothingness sprawled at
his feet lunge but furl suddenly as it floats shyly further into another—
he can’t hold the stern veering in the opposite direction, magnetized,
eye’s absorbed by the heat radiating off the door, warmly flickering, each
section remembers his touch, impasto hand prints, two, only one is his own,
on his hip, the key taps wearily, he glances at it, the keyhole shots moonlight,
he tries to peek in but only a faint image of beauty and croon whimpers, the
key singeing his palm, he gasps, tremendous, forcing him to the ground, with
ease, he attempts to place his fingers around it, but no, he can’t move, frost
creeps across, cracking, tightening, no, not yet, he can’t, he hasn’t the power—
***
That subspace is colder than any winter he has seen. Those looming greys lurk
like umbrellas plastered to hide the sun.
No voices here, only the distinct silence that eerily chimes due to one’s own move—
meant to waver only minutes here not days.
Shifting weather in cyclones, globular fluorescents, he stands not on ground but—
what difference since his heavy eyes weep.
His arms are yanked both ways by forces not his own, attempting to contract that—
completeness of absolute self-mastery.
It all looks so glorious when the light pierces confusions like fresh butter whether
you or I will sign that biography to settle down.
***
2.
Midnight with infinite specks bursting with aura like a bomb,
can’t see the handle at first, engraved deep, must reach your
hand as far as it will go and feel. That bite stings at first but
it will subside, like the unfurling of a storm, massive eyes wink
nonchalantly as you peek through, coquetry, those lucid reds,
he can’t remember what the appeal was. It’s heavy, broad,
a burden perched on his back, but, upright, high, peering into
thousand lanes of possibilities. It’s easier here, they harangue,
he takes a few steps in, his feet denting the cement, permanent,
glancing back at that old, is it still old? Can it still bring him that
smile that he wants? They grab at him, saying this is right, but
he shakes them off and shuts the door tight. He would rather wait.
