NO REWIND { a poem }
thepromise.substack.com
Dancing on cracks.
Fern creeping pop-moss.
Plastic abs.
Cracks silt themselves down.
The lovers legs slide
down dirt pillars.
Earth moves to resist the
grain touch of intimacy
as she falls.
The bellows are silent.
Backs of roots turned towards
the outside dark,
waiting— for the full
fall.
Pausing, until the wide
hit.
Dead and alive —
there’s nowhere to pulse or
run or clam.
Embracing the damp end is
it’s own initiation.
As the anointed crown of
Realization
sets its noble presence on a
candescent mind;
the dark knight is not
bottomless.
But you can’t hit rewind.