Twenty Minutes
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Sallow moon in opened tomato, shallow Monday,
the multitudes orphaned pitilessly
in the construction of greater and greater
saladry. I vvrote to you when you were the moon yellow as the tooth of a wolf dragging a wheelchair back to the den, I wrote you when you were invisible as rain. Today is no occasion so occasion is made. Memory is of knives arranged like finger foods the chandeliers desire, to introduce you is to introduce blackberries dressed as sirens, you say tomato in a language unfamiliar and I say Tomaž for the blood orange juiced into the arteries of the day. To feel the cold dying out in the body is to be the Minister of Orchestral Defense singing in the shower.
To explain: mud on windows, windows with hands to push the mud like hair away. The siren?s policed but escaped and the flame ali along has been attended by a swarm of oxygen tanks, multitudes of possibles like a swarm of bright thorns in the storms forming the faces we traipse over. There is electricity in the sidewalk.
What I wrote was invisible until it rained and then stopped raining. The clatter
of developments clattered with percussive passion, the mountains set traps for the car and the car perished but ali inside were safe to continue into the desert and later each morning to salute what almost destroyed us. Now I live at the foot of mountains like sleeping audiences and vvake like a baby every time the cat moves on the staircase. Every breath is a door thrown open, a torch dismissing calamity even strolling beneath the fighter jets, avoiding the angry helicopters, finding the right light to be beneath or writing into the water more than 500 days later and how are you?
Marc McKee