so there it hangs.
the tiny crystals refract the dim white and throw blue and yellow.
she wanted partners,
so we're cold-calling magician's assistants in the dead of night,
calling all charlatans to devise these new parlor tricks.
but you, mistress of perjury. surely, you,
you take the cake.
it's feeding time with some fair-weather friends of mine.
we've amassed all these hopeless provisions, we stack them eye-high
to hide our bruises and scars and, we, are inclined
to stay awhile.
we've dabbled in the business of building,
we say it's something we know will last,
but we hold contempt for this inertia, we're lost among
panicked waves of our desiccated materials we long to
hold on to.
all of these unwrapped gifts, small brushes for ever-larger canvases,
atonal, rhymeless madrigals to catholic hearts,
all of our life, all of our time that we've spent spending,
pushing a land mass between lovers.
we're splashed with green and splotched with mottled yellows and muted purples,
slashed at with stripes of oil paints, and we're exhausted,
we're spent from
painting a garden where no garden would grow,
painting a paved path to our getaway, honeymoon nowhere.
through long, grueling strokes, we painted where we knew our path would end.
a gruesome scene of red bricks fading into the background into
a tiny dot of piano black,
because there's a vanishing point on every horizon.