across

a flickering pace of promises
leaking through a floor of complications
melting words that come before
and sound like this
.
.
.
you
steal
shadows
off the walls
peel them back
and rearrange them
into sticky repositions
payne's grey words
that pour your fingerprints
from hearttomindtoeveryotherthing
to trip the tip
of floatingface to floatingface
until the ritournello
turns about withinwithout
as if to say
a wound
is not a cause
for noxious tides
of fragmentary focal points
not i dot i
but just a pause
for realignment
with the whitehotflame
of thatwhichiswithinitself
and thatwhichisconceivedthroughoutitself
like moments rightly buttered with spinoza
onto nucleated knowings
layered ontologically
and allpervasively expansive
in an undivided YesYesYes
.
.
.
your nonono
and all these lettered soldiers
lining up inside my head
against a wandering maze of no-more-reminiscence
and not your angry star,
your sizzling wick,
your white hot drip of wax across the skin
a steaming tick tick tick,
the mantled clock of thinkingwaytoofast
against that chime, that time, that meeting to attend
and rushing out the door of ink-still-wet
upon a page of drivingthroughtherain
away from all these things
when only wanting music
in the taste of almond on the tongue,
the onebyone of turning pages in a book
and
then
the
angel
teaching
how
to
walk
within
his
tapping
grace