Memory

On my back,
the ceiling of my cell like the evening sky
glowing darkness, hues in lightness and varied intensity,
the floor tilts like I'm edging over.

Or, a breath,
infusing, ambient scents of habit;
cotton, conditioner and acrimonious coffee,
and tasting traces of polymer, Persephone and perspiration.

Or, my bloodless throat,
and chest-deflated rapture
in the discusive, consonant voicings
of her giddily tantalizing yet, unapproachable shoes.

Or, for love,
as unkempt compulsion,
balanced in unconditional surrender,
sedated in murky, exasperated encounters,
--a saturated, irretrievable convenant of moments.

Or, in crisis,
unaccountable, unachieved instances obsessing immutable objects,
reconciling the putative present with all potential
--infinite review of past participle: finished work.

Or, an apparition,
like archaic beliefs from abandoned languages
an ancestor worship of the horizon-sized oblivion,
reminiscing in temporal, meandering avatars.

Or, my eyes,
salting the astringent ancillary,
mediating my journey of oxidation,
in limbic, self-reflexive chimeras.

Or, -simply, -automatically,
as an infant's speculative finger,
pawing at available simulacra,
as if pushing a bubble back toward the custodial sky.

(c) 2006 Beeman