Adam Palay

Far back before the sun

made any sort of difference,

and the icicles hung like knots

in the light-grains that housed us,



I was unafraid to take your hand,

unaware of the future we unzipped

like a winter coat in late March,

thinking not so much I was touching you,



but somehow touch, and thus entering

some kind of experience. But it was remarkably

just like any other object, for something

with so many nerve endings.



Even your eyes, glowing in the halo

the sun praises from the atmosphere

in a still and timeless ring of dawnanddusk,

spin through it like a pair of fading globes.

I stiffen: again a shift,



a shuffle somewhere



in the darkness,



impenetrable



as the guillotine.



The scaffold collapses



into a bulging jaw



sputtering against



the shut. The heart



is a muscle. Alone,



against the drawbridge,



my hand, wet with fog,



slicks over the steel,



and the big bolts



resisting rust. Lift,



and the rain



folds like hands retiring



into applause, and



your silhouette disappears



like a question



into a question mark.



As if anyone could be



lost, and permanently.



A candle spills through



its wax, as the buildings,



slowly, fall into a cloud



which appeared as if



to catch them, but, in



truth, held nothing.