Ex Parte

We are a broken limb now.The photons in the sky can't reach us.

We still see each other's skin tonesalabaster peach olive cinnamon

still hear the echo of our cellphoneschiming like the bells of Notre Dame, feel

the imprint of hands rubbing, bodies pressingheat like love, like lust leftover in the creases of our sheets.

We still taste the prime rib, the salmon pooling up the platesin restaurants all over town in booths we sat in

smell the wine bellowing up like hot air balloonsfull glasses carrying light as if through stained glass

through blood through planets refracting.There is consistency only in the machinery

not the context of happenings.The empty hourglass of time continues ticking

dropping air through its narrow holelike raisins like dried up things.

And even though the grass is still greenit can't be compared as greener to anything.

You and I are merely mowers chomping grindingour surface geography. We are blades

revolving slicing everything.We will fathom our journeys a decade from now

from mounds of grass and compost heapswhile fevered dandelions bob their heads

talking our stories to the blowing leavesthe root stomping at the weeping willow tree

as it sheds bits of bark from its basein hues of olive alabaster

cinnamon and peach.We will live forever

only therein those stories on the wind.