On the Virtual Sill, On the Blue Hum

Dearest, when loomingly
midday sun darkens

and the bell of this red horizon
rings its cut-off tongue           

like a thick, hot wire sparking
over steel and asphalt                  

–indeed, rings deep violet                                     
 like a noose                                                        

with its noisy megabyte news
of the cutters

and
the cut—

then, carefully, on my belly
pulling this body over damp soil

with fingers stretched
prehistorically taut,
                             
with both hands I reach
for you, Darling:

plucked and culled
tested and tasted

wrought and wrung
vow by exquisite

vowel.  Your every consonant
clasped and dreamt with, sipped

like an ancient wine of syllables                                              
from a shattering glass,

your each dawning cry
cradled, coddled, escorted

through all the fluorescent hours
courted, carried, week into month

morning to evening. Curved and tucked.
On the virtual sill, on the blue hum

of screen, in blood and synapse:            
assembled and reassembled.

Shouted whispered fretted.
Welded.

Wielded. Burning solar in the mortar
of a pre-dawn skull until

finally
this construction:

one uncorrodible sentence           
launched against all gilded

and fraudulent sentences,
against any blind edge

and every extinction
and all genocide

labeled or unlabeled
in factory or field

shocking always
in the shred of cheekbone

the exploded chest.
Rare and dearest:  whirling

winged, unimprisonable:
brace and hold: 

this weight is massive
I have built you to carry:

two worlds caving, the next
careening.