Structure Sign Play

The lights change when they intersect, a product of prism.
There is no way to mark the shift, only that a shift takes place:
between red and orange, a boundary; between orange and yellow, another.

I wrap my fingers around the cool edges
of difference, a token of my appreciation.

Dispelling is disarming, disintegration. When I insert myself,
I've already changed, particles to waves, binary boxes checked.
Colors bleed into shapes, the origin traced; I am the space between.

Photographic Memory

That man captured
in the background
is not part of our story,
and yet
there's that
indifferent face,
looking off, unaware
of its permanence.

I wonder about him,
his grand canyon dream,
the noise budding in his throat.
He will never age, not
here. We will never know
his name. Exposure limited,
there is only
so much to learn.

At least I'm inspiring somebody,
quietly, gracelessly, breathlessly, located in a clumsy swipe at sleepsand. Neither of us acknowledges the other woman.

It's the underdog's story once again,
and all the chocolate is gone. I wait for the room to collapse
before discovering I have to tear it down by hand, until my brain is bloated and my fingers are pulp.

These ghosts we've been following are as lost as we are.
You said I dressed like a victim. It comforts me to know you haven't the heart to kill me.

If I touch you, will you break?

Immanuel Can't

Transcendentalism always tries
to break the news gently, running
her fingers through my hair.
It's actually a pain in the ass.

I sing good morning to
the hummingbird. I finally
get to see her perch, still,
resting. She matches the trees.

I match the trees too today,
seduced by chance encounters
and indirect communication. Each leaf
is a note for the sky, a love letter.

Dancing is not my favorite; that's where
the wind and I disagree. He doesn't want
a rumor, just an opportunity. I cannot
be persuaded to trust just anyone.

Transcendentalism loves to exploit
the parenthetical aside. When I'm
invisible, I can't use your figure
of speech, love letters be damned.

Regulations

Plato hates me: all cold
toes and symbolism.
Banished, my next meal
comes from a can, cold beans.
Fuck you, Plato.
That's what Aristotle said, anyway.
If I'm a writer, then I'm a deceiver,
a believer in puzzles and artifacts,
tangible weapons like irony,
giving weight to sugar and magic tricks.
But even Plato loved Homer.

Crisis averted, shoulders bare,
he encourages me, the dear poetess,
to wear a shawl. "Cover that shit up,"
he says. That's what Aristotle claims, anyway.
With a wink, I can starve romantically,
blink tears away. I rub the smudges off
this glass and fill it with warm water.
If I concentrate well enough,
the tea will steep without outside interference.
If this is the thanks I get, then
I can probably deal with that.