paradox of infinite halves

. . . if this is all there is between Hydrogen and graveyards of the winds; I’d lose myself to the season of Dust, listen to dragons fly grazing different gravel of stormy weather. I’d learn code and hyphenate orangepeel.

I’d turn blind, eyes to the Din; gusts of billowhurt uneven in the August air. I’d spy on trees whimpering of lives once lived. I’d swirl back into the Commonplace, learn slang to escape language.

I’d heap Emily’s spectacles into baskets, let life drop itself headward, down wind, And breathe the immaculate being of a River, reflecting the dawn’s moon. I’d slice open smiles, undressing their innumerable fictions and snack on the paradox of such infinite halves …

I’d ring Time, trample maple until the wind dies for leaves to quicken my dying, tended to the depths of crucifixions before Supper. And play deaf to the still lingering jaundice within, forgetful of how you love your several measures of Self.

First published August, 2011.