.

there


in this slow pace
between his intentions
in a crowded room,
moments measure
nothing next to late
day light that wraps
in ribbons `round
his neck, brown eyes
steeped in way too
much and heavy metal
in a mirrored gym, its
High C ring, the force
of gravitation, his
unhurried moves
that weave the air
with head bent low
as if to test the weight
of steps, just like
approaching geese
(ie. the feathered
rise of cautious heads
above the rocks to
guage their pressence
on a pier before
advancing any further),
but in a downward
glance with arms pulled
taut like Jesus on a Friday
cross in quiet reciprocity,
it seems that there are
only two regimes of
madness in this
April-shrouded lift,
like feathers up to sky,
his airborne eyes defy
each sigh, each repetition,
and these define the space
between each moving
shadow on the floor
and light on skin because
in this slow space, time
means something more.