“In an Endless Cusp”
In an endless cusp, I act the actuary to the least of bare necessities
Of bodies in their purgatories, weathered penitents in hell, and prey
To every passing thought and lethal bleedings of the casual phrase
Well kneaded to a perfect clause. I become the spice of makeshift recipes
Of shifting syntax―every sentence couched in the indicative, the remedy
For bloated enclaves, an anomaly to all while spurning uses of case
And number that yearns to be so much more. Something just this side of praise
Surpasses jaundiced truth amongst them arranged in litanies
And bound in volumes of a local librarie or in a much too public library.
I am a chance but intimate cannon in the random cloister of a momentary clique
Whose glue is nothing less than fear of solitary midnights and certain lusts
For eternal reunion with but lightning’s balls in the darkness of trusts
That where two or more within a single space aspire to seek
A mortal blessing—there will be weeping and the gnashing of teeth.