I.
What do we say about a hand that traces over the window, on light-porous paper that loves the pencil? A line, a curve, a curve, a line. Why is repetition love? If you don’t have an artist’s hand, then time only goes forward.
Beauty is a time-bomb; time-bombs explode time. Send time-shrapnel flying. Time is the landscape in cartoons, but also a secret organ. When we see beauty, blood explodes and we collapse, slack-jointed dolls.
A lover’s face can kill. Unless it flashes behind glass, and our hands are quick enough to pane the glass with paper. Otherwise, beauty makes us mortal; timeless urges reveal time; pleasure is pain turned up so loud we can’t hear the correct noun.
II.
Mistake a window for a painting, I know love. Love, so much mucous clogs the drain. Happiness is water, faucet to drain. Time runs horizontal on a finite line. But sometimes moments bleep vertically, like sound
print-outs, and then we’re exhaled tightly, thrown off mountains to land