Transcendence

"How to?" "So true!" "Will do." "Won't do."

Balding snippets, agents of Discord.

"How odd!" "Oh God!" And the cold-blooded nod.

So unlike the red to blue

of our silences all day long.

So unlike the red to blue of me and you.

Lifelines everywhere, ebbing

while the brown ringlets of my hair

become Time's roots-

my fingers weave a spiral

and deep the waves travel, deep into you.

The cliff spits at me. Ifs and buts are echoes

that return; mice that won't be Gullivered.

"Pull over." "Game over." "Deliver?"

The dregs of a river.

So unlike the red and blue

in an "I love you."

My eyes had drooled at the words

you'd stripped off your soul.

I now school the quiet quite like you.

The cliff spits at me, but its echoes

do not outwit the music of our

Mercuries and Plutos,

that go from red to blue,

that go from red to blue.