All of the 4172

583. Leo and Koi

Razor blue eyes.
Transatlantic lexicon.
Transparent menagerie.
Quick tongues and grand secret tales.

Koi raised his hand
to the sky,
letting the breeze curl through his fingers.
His questions were sincere.
Leo began to brush away
the layers of dust on his theology.

The silver-tongued fossil
was shapely,
smooth to his fingers,
but the bones were teeth;
under the thirsty sun their gleam
was potent.
As soon as the treasure was unearthed,
it crumbled into tiny little pieces.

Urgent invisible heist.
Gentle energy.
Fervent hand.
Civil sacrifice and quiet holy wars.

Before he was educated,
Koi was enthusiastic
and sharp.
He later retreated into cool, dark, lonely places
while Leo slowly burned away,
left to watch the fire spread into his dreams
and consume his philosophies.

Never trust a sailor,
especially when he says so.
When he’s excited though,
his spirit is contagious and you forget
what it’s like to pine.

Easy luminous ripples.
Battle arms.
Diaphanous linen.
Blind repose and old rugged wood.

Koi was not interested
in rocks,
but he was very good at picking his way
through their pieces.

The sun turned the ocean
into a million dancing vapours
and the sky
accumulated a ferocious irony.
The storm was pithy,
and exhausting.
The debris that washed ashore was redundant.

Discrete emerald smudge.
Black tapioca.
Black silhouette.
Pinstripes and cold stainless crosses.

Koi believes the world is flat
and that you can swim right over
the edge.

Leo is waiting for something,
for science and flying fish,
for evidence to support this antiquated thought.

With all his tools,
Leo cannot reveal the truth
because sometimes dynamite is the only answer
for something so solid.

But more
is yet to turn up from beneath these rocks.
They will make relics of us all.

285. Undelivered

I want to make him
all his words in bite-sizes too big
to swallow,
so that he
on his intentions,
leaving his deceitful gifts undelivered,
dribbling excuses over his
running down his chock-filled

I want dusk to settle in his
while his
plead for my Heimlich
and his slippery fingers clutch in vain,
imploring mercy,
receiving merely
a pat
on the back
for making me think he was more
than random.

206. Beautiful Incompetent Hands

You dip your hand in oil.
I place my stained-glass heart in your palm.

I would rather you break me,
then never
have you hold me at all.

You got down on your knees
to gather up
all of the pieces with
your beautiful incompetent hands.

For one slow breath,
I was lucid.

Maybe breaking
what keeps us together
is how we survive.

Tiny little pieces give the clouds
room to roll back.

Tiny little pieces give us edges
to cut back curious fingers.

Tiny little pieces give us
no volume
by which to carry anything
ever again.

104. Every Beautiful Thing is Dismantled

Can a sardine and an elephant
sit on a couch,
spread a little gill,
stroke a little tusk,
drink brews and make moves?

Am I really intolerant or are you
a fabulous liar?

Every beautiful thing is dismantled,
left to the scrutiny of
an incredulous mind.

We are dangerous skeptics of
anything good in this world.

In an imperfect world,
can a sardine really ignore
the elephant in the room?