184. This

this reminds me of an ocean
the page of the screen and its words
blank permanent continuous
that it wraps itself around

there is only one ocean on it

this reminds me of the material man
made out of matter and meaning
and making from messages the means
of his mettle and might and meant

there was a motion to his moving

this reminds me of the rhythm
extracted from the running of the day
the slip of water away or towards
the sift of wind over or through
cattle of humanity in fields of concrete

there was a hollow sound to it

this reminds me of lemons at dawn
the scent rising yellow and full
sounds of birds waking your fingers
the only leaves the feathers of birds

there was a sliver of sight in it

this reminds me of the time
clock watched into distraction
the disrepair of jeweled movements
dusty and dingy towards night

there was a sense of a tick from it

this reminds me of the serum
celluloid cinema on the television
transparency of greys to their faces
who might die if the serum’s not found
the lack of serum in the rest of life

there was an urgency to it

this reminds me of the fire in place
kept in a cupboard of bricks
a wind inflamed and fluttering
the warmth that comes but doesn’t
way to wrap the winter’s coming away

there is a yellow in it

this reminds me of the last book read
the size of letters exaggerated by time
spit and bile from ferocious life
the love he had for hate
and a slippery manner with the word

there was the taste of syntax from it

this reminds me of the requirement of caution
stopping at the red hexagon for a single breath
option to hold on as the train jolted forward
being what everyone knew you had to be

there was a blanket behind it all

this reminds me of the feet of the table
stuck to the floor and balancing a weight
operatic in their graceful simplicity
audaciously reserved and smoothly brown
four of them one for each corner

there was a balance to it

this reminds me of when we met
melted summer and songs for voices
13 preparations for the extemporaneous
dark and the stage upon which the feet
microphones on the stand and we too
voice twins against the sound of a fever
laugh of a daughter in the dark audience
shoeless for singing and shoeless for word
loss of the line for laughter of chest
audience of faces covered with ears
sound of the scent of the sweat on a neck
tremolo and tremor to temporal words
sat at a table for exchanging of voices

there was a continuity to it