serenade

hand grenade serenade--
                   she smiles palm
to palm. and with
one flick
of her
         twisted wrist----

                                             a storm emerges
                               from the calm.
                               as the clouds descended I
                               wilted away (with the fog)
                                              like castling creviced vapour
                                    taking root in the ground
                                    or heavy porcelain walls which whisper,
              "let me see the sky no more."

                                                                        I take flight, only
                                                    to drift back again.

and the rock chips the chisel,
                  she replies from ear
to ear. along the cliffs which
betrayed him---
                         belligerence.

                                                      It fell from the whites of my finger nails
                                     and ripped out from my unsurfaces flesh
                                     to forget the doubt,
                                                                        it purged.
                                                      like turn tables moving
                                    clockwise, I redisguise: configure to
                                    the headless sheep
                                                          which say nothing when they outnumber
                                                          three lights falling out
                                                          and one crooked knock at the door.

hand grenade feet
               one step outside the walls
    which made him---
                                 deliverance.

                                         Heels click in quick sand. let this
                                               small death (never) be
                                                         forgotten,
                                               hands tied up and every man a
                                               thread, every man a number,
                                               every number a syllable in this
                               mire of a melody.
                                                           with its decimals erased
                                                    liked smoothed out dents
                                                        in this vicious bell curve
                                          or little toy soldiers
                                                                     who never existed to know.

                                                                              for yesterday I was somebody else
                                                                   and how can time move--
                                                                                            if lips won't.