sweet water and shattered columns

crack open the walnut shell of your answer sitting in the car.
when did your eyes become so small and bright
two rowboats propel backwards
attacking the course blindly.
no, that never made much sense to me.

i used to know the way down that street
i used to be able to picture it
sitting in a sycamore room
a thousand years ago.
rewind further,
if only you could.
ah, the impossibility of things.

now you spend your days breathing, presumably
and the sun sets with less adrenaline
no longer bare skin against snow
laughing along the tightrope of the horizon.
when did the ground begin to unfurl
disease-like, spinning out from an anonymous
center, past the edges of control.

now nothing is more loathsome than
the blackest of sweet water, and
shattered columns of some livid little king.
light dust lands smoggy on your shoulders,
goosebumps of a daffodil’s rage.

so, i’m glad to see you’re well but
the clay won’t hold
the shape of your self
after you are gone.