The ossature of this living moment slips

Beneath your skin, unspoken

Or unbroken without allegory, and if I must now give in

And animate my zodiac’s scales to stop weighing and move

Or be carried by your archer’s compass arrow, which even now

Points inward to an x-rayed sky, so that lodestones

Instead of iron carry oxygen through you,

I will, and if I am waiting on where you will carry you

I am also waiting on a fellowship or job or book deal or death

So that I can barely balance all five on my senses, and,

Even now, I know there is another waiting,

An anxiety that would require a wasted sixth sense to comprehend

Or another cone of vision, a patina of violet

Sitting on violet, or the patience

Of a zygote of an angel, so quick and far off is God’s next thought,

And the little day we’re forced to break and measure.