The Through-Trajectory

I walk through you

as through

a slanted doorway, canted

to the left, leaning windward; I

spit your bitter fluoride flavor

as foam into the sink.

My glasses form

small refracted lenses

in the sputtering drool of rain;

they shine like liquid polish

in prismatic, bleeding light,

dissolving orange and

webbed with purple bruise.

Gravity bends with the weight of wet air.

It illustrates the steep parabola, the

wind-muddled obtuse curvature of rain's

brief suspension in air.

We missiles, we of inevitable trajectory, bound

like the year-soaked metal shell

of insensate armaments

to pitted landscapes of low-altitude, we

meet at lines of perpendicular descent,

you and I.

I pluck the torn

filaments

of sound and light

from your pyrite halo

of hair.

Steam streams from you

like divinity stealing

into the vaporous shine

of a street-light.

I blow through you

as shrapnel, as black bits

and bone splinters and

debris dusted red,

right through,

finding

the space between your motes,

amongst gently resting borders,

in the wavering punumbra

where your gravity

warps fissures, hollows

a constellation of tiny no-wheres.

Time slopes, spirals, gains momentum,

and funnels us, like my spit down the drain,

to temporal sea-level, the last transitional plane

beneath the mud's gooey suck,

and less-soft layers of earth.

My new leather shoes

split and swell

prematurely well-worn

by water. They match

the mud's matte-brown hue.

My heels dig shallow divots

as I wade through.

We enter into a dive, like a contract,

a blood-pact, even as our blood

blooms its sanguine cloud behind our fall

as a jet-stream in sunset, and

we scream with the suicidal coupling of eagles

into horizon's final flare.