Routes, Draft

Sunday evening, 5p.m., becomes a defined time
That fillets the senses, with memory fermenting.
My soul had foamed, by Three Stones welded;
Now once a week, excavated, thrust up
From my chest and my ribs. In the meantime
I turned into a statue of ghosts, marblesque,
Without a core or a way to decode; such Arteries devoid of
Aortas, an atom split from the Nucleus of thought,
What was a sport I cannot contest; a Spring now less
Than its source, turbidly these thoughts descend,
Spiral and swirl through cataracts, only stilled at a Port
Many hundreds of days from where I write at my desk.

The order decreed unassailably
That at this time and at this place, (a Sunday nevertheless),
You would be removed from the longitude
To a marker far less true, and forever away.
Only the stubborn road knows of words unspoken
On these journeys. The nonsense and farce
Of human language makes even the solemn Fates laugh;
The glottis-lost emotions fly like the first-founded
Frontier-bound bison, without recompense
Or justice, the winter only held off by fleece
And flight of fancies, the frost-hardened hooves of you
And I standing, contemplating all the things we lost,
The things we could never recover.
Momentum undone, re-moulded in my throat
Like thistles composed in my thorax.
The Rhododendrons smother and float.
The significance of a black throne
Held by its bleak seams. The steel and diesel
Compartments whistle in a speeding metal carpet.
Fruitless, to gloat at me now. I brace for myself,
Transmogrifying as I do, slowly, into rue-rotten goat.

The rest of the week somehow just happens.
And then it is Sunday.

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