death of the undine.

[green_kite]

somewhere far off, they're signaling the beginning of the night;
the edge of a cliff plastered with traffic cones and blatant warnings.
a tear in the transient fabric of the afternoon sucks you in
and pulls you through the hours, the minutes, the seconds.
(Staring in the phonebooth window, waiting for the receiver to pick up.)
Evergreen sap and fine bombyx specimen emolliate into a sticky film
that is slow to dissolve like honey in your cup of tea.
Mint gum and parlor tricks on lazy mornings, coarse wood grain and sunscreen
spread across vinyl on hot afternoons, black ink scribbles, lost pool cues,
and spilt oil cans on cold garage floors while the world is still new.
Numbed fingertips and eyes closed to slits bathed in fluorescent light.
The waiting room is empty save for this tiny little alcove,
packed with life:
breathing and sputtering and lockjawed.
Minutes and seconds mean nothing to someone who has ceased to respond,
and everything to those who wish they would.
I never had a chance, I never had a chance to say
anything at all.