ode to

nothing with an essence
shall survive this bittersweet tightrope

not the nakedness strung across the visage
of piano wires, nor the fated relics that bridge
like breakfasts through minefields;
not the soft connections

nor the quiet losses we incur by law
nor the ghosts of adrenaline we pardon
with incense or powder with temporary magic
not a single creature to those requiem habits

better born to fill the cradles of the unloved
swamp riots we adore so afterwards
left there by the last good shadow
to come in years

those too black stories of becoming which
are nothng more than pawned nightshade
permeable blossoms and windspread tantrums
gospel gone threadbare;
Peter Schwartz
Jeff Crouch