The pendulum swings awry

whenever fire consumes blank canvases and your eyes
blossom across the silence
of syllables of mirrors
in continuous and uncertain reproduction
face to face until infinity

A blade

an insane edge of death
slitting through a nervure in space
where the topography of heaven is phosphorescent
across from the dahlias and the searchlights

Death is a cold thing, a distant well
with the hollow shape of the hand of men

A reservoir

where jealousy leaves incandescent flames
fierce
and illuminating

No water is like it
No wind so cold

as when your eyes are all that is left

and the blade