Hands of Wasted Shadows

This last time has been the most meaningful for me.
Your hands of wasted shadows bring a circle to my brow,
Telemarketing your vast awareness onto the splinters of my waiting tremble,
Singing my hairs into laserlike ease of pinch, taste,
Bon mot,
Wind-chimes from out of Hell that I
Barely knew before the paper-thieves came and ripped away my sanctuary.

These days the last thing on my mind is curling away into the sea.
The last thing on my mind is swifting away to a baby-talk of
Regeneration of degenerate phrases meant to lock-step you into
Boldness or nothing,
Sweetness of seaweed over the nickelback times of
Ford’s “all-American” way of running from place to place.

However it’s done, this will be the final knell of wishing’s bell
To end the drying-times falling into outer space,
Landing on top of the curving vortex that sees out to every form of
Westing beast and eastern shape that
Bites into my living and
Sends my hats to another country
Where I cannot remain, cannot,
But where I only live and breathe until this borrowed time is
Fined at the eternal library,
Where all my pages have been burned away.