The Flying Embers

If I release the utterings,
(which I am deathly afraid to do)
articulation unfolds the light,
from it springs music,
LED ropes, fired hula hoops,
and charred limbs—
wooden beams
bent in waves, smoking
and whistling, banging
like church bells,
the uncanny resemblance
to purgatory bliss
like a mother’s lullaby
and father’s heavy palm
on your shoulder
bubbling into a familial
sanctuary.

Where have we been?
Can I take the train
back to insanity,
the space that lacks regret,
the portal engaged
in raucous lovemaking
and translucent
forgiveness?

No.
Carry it with you,
be the tracks, the laid brick,
the parallel tiles
of silk and sweat
and drugged out
awareness.
Hyper focus on me.
I am forever at your heels
and it tastes
like a beginning,
a sweet sauce
made from
effervescing
city limits.

Team me, lover,
engulfed in oxygen
and treading in spit,
we are now,
and at sometime we’ll be
a later.

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