orchestra with straw in its mouth

your eyes turn me from gargoyle
into a church vault
almost as sure as trees
almost as sure as them
sure as

made naked by elevation
the umbra collapsed
into sparks

the
islands i sought to make for you
from the bread we broke
in the morning

turned to be vibrations
or the squeak of bicycle wheels
the lowered tyre its air pushed
withered sure
washed road i think i saw
your jeans in the puddle
that the pavement
lapped at.

i say
the sun was there but it wasn't
i collected your reflection
in 500 milliliter beakers
and maybe let flowers sip

or cars crash like dominos against
the spots where i wanted you

its definitely
the same mourning
as before

when my face is outside and yours
shut in books
the crank of days slingshots me
and it is your hand

that falls loose to change,
i am the spare,

the second theme
of bowling

played by an orchestra for no one.