Planes are turning and circling in the sky, lost keys to faraway lands. I am singing under my breath, plumes of alphabet are falling. Falling, failing light is tracing memory maps on buildings of steel and blood. All signs are mixed up, down and up, how to tell? Arrows are quitely spinning about their center, what is the head and tail of these tales I hear? Chrome and crystal under the barlights are shining, where I am still drinking this bitter brew. But hey hey I am still singing the blues, under my breath, to a dear someone, anyone.

You leant forward as I was explaining 1729, mad geniuses and, and before I could expound any further you leant forward. I fell, the falling was and is definate. There are lines we drew, I said I won't and you said you will not. But the first snow of the winter that was falling was the metaphor. We drifted around the edges like snowflakes in glass and kitchen. And all around milling people my eyes sought you, the adjacent edge the country whose border I later was to erase to become whole by leaning over, leaning into. But you leant forward, the flakes melted into a crystal, mingled and couldn't be stopped. And if these is anyone to blame for all this. its you for leaning forward as I was cubing integers forcing me build a cube around me and you.

And you repeat that again by leaning forward.

It is fall again, And old wounds are laid bare. The cold epidermis flaps against Bones, a rag toy leaking wool.

Crisp leaves bury the sundials And nights lengthen across the meridians. I wake before light again, Clutching to my bony chest, the sum Of things, between us, left unsaid and undone.