Abrasion's Peal

Vernon Frazer & Michelle Greenblatt

 

A man passes through a closed gate,

 

 

                         a woman swan dives onto concrete because the gate

 was Heaven's. And then what?

 

 

                                    we

 

                                           know one valence can turn

 

on the others

& devour them, one O at a time

 

regardless

of the prophecies spoken

 

                  through their gaseous loins

 

 

or

 

flaming mouths. Precious

 

                           metals fly off your tongue

 

when you speak,

 

leaving me scrambling on the ground, trying to pick

 

up what I can. It's not enough that

 

your medallions reject collection, my hand forever

 

            an empty grip.

 

Your internal chemistry

 

 

F       L       A       R       E      S

 

 

D     E      M      O      N              O      R    A      N    G    E

 

 

against the celestial grating

 

                                    or any other overturned figurine

 

A scheduled disruption

 

                                            of molecular particles

 

dances on vandal hooves.

 

A bird falls. A clock stops. I open my hands

 

to receive

                      (as supplicant)

 

the night

 

in selflessly-absorbed moment of bliss that pins

 

                                                         down

 

 

the blurring edges creeping into a scream                         at the

bottom

 

edge

turn more harrowing with each deep breath                       of the

blackening

 

I attempt spinning away from me into the vortex

 

of my ecstatic asphyxiation. During

 

my dervish dance, I miss

                                                winter chewing away at the

devilish darkness which sucks softly at autumn's leftover lunch of leaves.

 

Grasped already, the lid to the missing bitterness is black-beaten

             and deadened by doorways

 

leading down hall of empty mirrors

 

reflecting each other

 

looking for the self among them.

 

 

The terror                           of your                      refractions

 

                   simmers                its slow burn,

 

                                                                      of                                                                             

a singe that scalpels my skin,

 

burning

at the core of my whirling

 

 

ecstasy

 

 

 

where too much is too little and too little is always enough, I'll look out

 

onto a land of untouched snows and sail over ice, certain in my confusion

 

that I am not dreaming

 

of concrete below

 

                                                 the vertical iron grating

 

of time,

  like sheet

 metal banging sheet metal

 clanging repeatedly

 

over my clamorous plea

 

for entry,

 

drowning

 

my entreaty

 

 

       and breath's frightening imbalance

 

turning rose into stone and stone into dust. Mold green color creeps

up my arms and covers

                              my face. A word comes through the

trees and it says to me

 

listen.

 

                                        The meaning in the tongues

 

                                        of leaves whispering wind

 

                               hovers above the scent of your remonstrance.

 

Abrasion's peal

 

                        recedes from the bell's stricken clamor