Undesirable passions pass, but anchor time.
Like accumulating cumulus clouds they lurk
past shallow horizons and an unspun sublime.
The mind's gears wind slowly, then jump and jerk.
Apart from second hand hearts, what's here isn't there?
An older tongue and patient imagination
are just minute solutions buried in blind air.
This nose still grows through its dirty circulation.
In the panicked magic of whatever makes sense,
somehow our foundering hours dance and condense
until midnight love's flying light breaks apart.
Reality's debris free floats like confetti
over this riot turned parade, fucked from the start.
Who will win these ruins
the wind's picked up already?
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