​A full-length mirror cracked under the pressure -
So now every inch of me 
is seven years of fucked. 
 
So if anyone wishes to change my foreseeable future
they best run it by fate first,
before they find themselves collecting shards in their own free time.
 
Epiphany? Keep it pithy. 
Infinity? Infinity!
You still don’t give my ego 
(whipper of split glass, snapper of buoyed light)
room enough to wiggle
All myeggs in infinity’sbasket?
Why, they’ll drop too deep!
and weep yolkily that they miss me
as every inch of them winces asunder
 
All things must come to an end - 
my tether not the least of them - but
tell time to tell Igor the Infinite, his filthy swine,
to keep his mucky hands off my eggs, the brute!
He can peel the shells (membranes and all!)
from my cold, dead hands.

​Token Gestures
 
Winding through woodland, holy-men chant lost language,
sound unspooling 
with the fluidity of lifelong preparation.
 
They say the trees were people once, 
before the fall. 
A novice will sleep beneath blood red canopies
for three summer nights, 
a trial for his heritage.
Leaves whisper without wind
to the boys resting on wound-warm bark
and moonlit soil.
 
Only the relics of our forebears can give them absolution 
from gene-warped flesh.
We give lifetimes to the study of their ciphers, a sequence 
built from the repetition
of A-T-C-G,
memorised
in the hope of insight.