Rushing Upon the Blade

Our first shoot, your picture came unglued;
nothing I could do to contain you.
Breath of god troubling puddles, water
complaining of bubbling under coils

its heaviness around edges of
potholes it lips. Pressuring his tomb’s
walls to piss boiling invectives, fire
under these reversing tires licks oil

with no incentive other than truth
to conclude the Universe pedals
pressed to the floor power. Overdue
affection conspires to flower for

me only once more, to burn its bloom
only after I quit fuming. Your

cure for insecurity that, too
often, I only ever humoured
with ritual vanity my sword
misunderstood, mistook for spoils

of a war’s win I never should have
been anticipating, now consumes
me. Photography dishonours with
glamour that attracts those it exiles.

Fanning flame for moments that lie nude
of hours, this rushing upon the blade
makes of time the eternity hewn
from permanence it only ever

resembles. Fame’s fable’s a costumed,
terrible substitute for lost words.