Early to wake, you made like the genius,
declaimed wildly, leapt between calculations, lusted over factories
and drew wild designs with an interminable finger
in sand spilled from an hourglass. Added quicker, distilled it faster - not an hour had passed
before you swore it was ready. The apothecary gods watched from their perches on the shelves above.
Eagerly, you let the smoke dissipate.
What did you find?
Matter irreducible, an unworkable core.
You had come to an end of yourself,
and still the blackened brain of paper on the floor
belched out only
A door being opened
twenty-five different ways
the picture of the woman
biting her nails
the rain fell asleep
and the road disappeared
When the air becomes as crisp
as the sandpaper rub of a whetstone
on the bluntness of a burdened mind
my heart throbs with the dull ache
of missing you.
I long to stitch you together
from the memories which dance
like cinders beneath the starlight,
I long to hear your voice amid the smoke,
my precious wolfbane.
But your singed paper kisses
have morphed into grey hairs
and the air no longer shimmers
at your touch.