What a Stranger Is

From light-years to lit
concrete tiles apart, we
stand invisible to each
other. Indecision under
each lip-emission, gaseous
or otherwise, stretches
time into webbed time.
Query: are you capable
of listening? Please quit
listing my iniquities and
trust this intimacy, now.
A kiss? No. Unfortunate
that you should ask, in fact,
since all my passion dictates
that I kiss those whom I lack.
Unfortunate that I...
Unfortunate that I...
Unfortunate that I've gone up
in smoke since we spoke last.

Tesseract

Fooled, I follow,
fall into folly and
feel the full moon.

In anger I hunger
and stumble, and linger
on younger things.

Intimately, I state
that fate, hiatus, and
participate in rite.

Really, yearly I scornfully
(regretfully) bully
sullenness into lull.

Liable, I amble on
stubbly bible-ribbed
blessings and tabulate.

I sit tilted, hit,
disappointed, admitting
(abetting) perhaps modes of pity.

Wrath

These are trestles Pompey walked across and wore
down; train-traced, unfettered track that wound
and wildly heralded comings, goings, mill-stopped
visits to a wife, billowing (air-marring, water).

Just time, justly intimate are wheels and rail;
Turn-enforced and collision-led sundays, mondays
tried to twist a firmer land. Unfortunate are
these forces; unfortunate that they should fail.

Mean Free Path

Field liners awoke early
to mark, to set the field
lines, waking birds, unstartled
by white paint, went unabashedly
looking for breakfast.

Here it is: This road again.
Or is it? Wrote the total
down from each rising star,
rode the solar wind, blurred time
until the masses ceased to be.

Peering downward, stand-on toes
and you, somewhere. Are you
down there? Are you anywhere?
All I seem to see is laden Abraham
with steel, all I know is fear.

Now undone and tied with fishing-line
knots, fantasy-entwined and soul-wishing
for some sanity's semblance, at least.
Please forgive all of this affection, if
I express remorse at all, it should be yours.