Blow

Maybe it’s time we say goodbye to meanings,

meanderings of the mind that leave

an open book turning
its pages until it reaches the edge of logic.
Or the table's. I’ve seen a thousand words fluctuate
past the things I imagine you to be:

there was never a relevance to reference—only a ghost

that haunts in the day, its see-through skin

being pierced by sun rays
until it is diminished to a speck of lie dangling
at the moist mouth of mourning

now being blown by the mad wind,

now being swept in a lapsed dream,

now being a blur, an ache, a concept

larger than the cathedral of deceit now rising

from the ruins of shared recollections—a thing

I can no longer grasp.