All the pans we placed in this leaky place
the rainy day of moving in
have long since overflowed, rusted, gone green.
Then why do I keep them, these tins that,
calloused, benevolent, firm, your palms washed,
scooping locks, lukewarm, up, down, back
up to soak a beard kiss-thick?
It tickled, was a trademark. I mean
is, is in that photo of you dozing,
bear-secure, on the steering wheel
of our old psychedelic, fender-bashed van.
Jesus, it was something, our first year,
trial and error, abruptly superseded by search,
seize, some judo movie on the tube
kicked over when, fists ramming, the militia——
We hadn’t done nothin’. I don’t understand
mongers, their language romancing war’s
on which side can leave less.
What math is so pathological?
Where is the diction? Twisted
Looks good on paper, the blue prints drawn,
planned methods to quarantine,
an evil concentrated but
on the outside. Thus, to carry out
the hypothesis, pawns are ordered,
individuals reminiscent of pans, these,
sieves now eaten empty by weather,
my head, an
this is the way
the world ends
only I want
to embrace you
a birth cry
where I still can’t
A resident of NY, Stephen Mead is a published artist, writer, maker of short-collage films and sound-collage downloads. If you are at all interested and get the time, Google Stephen Mead and the genres of either writing, art, or both, for links to his multi-media work.