The ossature of this living moment slips
Beneath your skin, unspoken
Or unbroken without allegory, and if I must now give in
And animate my zodiac’s scales to stop weighing and move
Or be carried by your archer’s compass arrow, which even now
Points inward to an x-rayed sky, so that lodestones
Instead of iron carry oxygen through you,
I will, and if I am waiting on where you will carry you
I am also waiting on a fellowship or job or book deal or death
So that I can barely balance all five on my senses, and,
Even now, I know there is another waiting,
An anxiety that would require a wasted sixth sense to comprehend
Or another cone of vision, a patina of violet
Sitting on violet, or the patience
Of a zygote of an angel, so quick and far off is God’s next thought,
And the little day we’re forced to break and measure.