THE TREE OF YOUR NIGHT

To know the correct line of despair.  
It has no face, does not stand up when called upon.
It is a perfect stance while my own face is full
of Earth’s dirt and grime so i stand at a table unserved
upon a terrace, in the evening and at midnight, by the
ocean of despair.

While our soul’s motors run i curse the gasoline
within my own heart — the road too long, the mileage
is a silver chain around our hearts.  It is not so much
the quantity of small facts like seeds which leave a furrow
for another night’s fall.  Not the last kiss or touch by
a warm body — it’s a deep hole riddled with snow.
   If not for gravity dead birds could never fall
 and my blood isn’t even thick.  i know the correct line
of despair.
   No, not the foam of a dying blue crab
nor the drinking glass // or the hair caught within the
earrings within your jewelry:  but the chase we run against
between living and dying upon the road to unknown routes
like a loose noose \  like the fan of despair around midnight.

Such breathless despair, whose mirrors never tell us if we’re
dead.  This despair cured by the nature of our world:
 to discover the beautiful uprooted tree of your Night.

:: 02.07.2021 ::