playthings
The muddy ache
Of what remains,
Soldered in places
As crossbeams,
That which caught in your high beams
In a forest meandering toward the coast
In a year there is no getting back to.
The nexus of timelines terminating
At the crook of my heart.
Each give the lie
Of what was to come before,
What coming to pass.
Parallel grammar gives a glimmer
Of meaning beyond the word.
If I stop too long to grasp at my tongue,
I shall fell the thought that so limber
Escaped capture.
No longer can there be simplicity
Or discretion with respect to
The poem’s addressee.
Reactants cannot be disentangled,
Entropic tendencies of our playthings.
In the speaking of the thing,
I come to understand You are
The extra-dimensional amalgamation
Of all I loved and sought - that is,
Each angle of the self, each tender temporal
Container of being, each moment strung to the
Pluri-temporal others, each swearing
of liege never quite broken, though mended,
Affixed, appended.