How long have we stood here
Face to face waiting for a sign,
Waiting for the miles between
Our words to confiscate themselves,
For either a spell or an aim to swallow
Our far-ranging trepidation?
I have never tasted
The fruits of my mind
The scorching brittle fruit,
Pith’ed in nimbus and pitted
With a deadly and noncommittal maybe
We cannot live on trite conditionals.
I fashion the tatters of my spirit
Into a set of wings and although dormant
They are still formidable to behold.
The sun chimes, my hands itch
I rake them through tufts of grass
Whole continents of mines
Laid out side by side
Wherever there exists
A sliver of untenanted land.
Beauty is the surfacing
Of the monumental
In what once was obvious,
The sincere application of a smile
Where no other light can be found.
I know your smile, it is the arrow
To my rapt and ready tension.
I set my watch by your impatience,
The rhythmic extrapolations
Of your forefinger against
A wall of silence.
How does one surpass almost?
And what is more certain than yes?