“The Cusp of Things”
The cusp of things, this siren in the night’s
Diversion that scars the vision’s days’ delay in what’s between
A wanderlust of possibilities yet to myself remains unseen;
And who has not discovered the taste of light,
The fragrant smell of vice and convalescent wounds that lead to brief surprise
In lyric melodies of accident, the salacious slap of coincidence or found
All solids turned to rushing streams on no longer stable ground,
The body heat—a brief release of truth—turned suddenly to ice?
Yes! of course I’ll teach my hours to fly, but fact
Is hourly resigned to friction through an opening,
An aperture, a lens through which each scene
Rehearsed becomes a chiselled frieze. Suddenly a match,
Some luminary speaks! his light reveals veneers I’ve built;
A satisfaction turned to grief that grinds these ruby solitudes to simple guilt.