Acetylene torch, a settling touch
transformations gross and subtle
soldiering signs, grass before the scythe,
three horn blasts and the Others come,
to this, to the clock, hands undone.
Darling drinkers, lift them high,
forswear thoughts of what draws nigh.
Ere self is erasure of I,
what hands do pray, what eyes upon the sun
pick out rays, the signs are plain,
seen by Sara Tall and Emily D.
Singers call across the empty sea,
of past lives, out past Mars,
a little further than eternity.
What liquid makes this sip true,
what hour does smile, rare and few.
Liken to rocks, lichen on the north,
while we cast and reel, press and seal.
Notes far flung, and confessions tucked away,
bottles without stoppers merely fill
and fail to contain.
Lick this black spittle from my pen.
I’ve ended, and so begin.
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