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