brace for the coming wind

watchwords sink
folded into mischief fingers

into syrup smiles and the aspirated hush
of rooms, as they shuffle out the science.

we'll find each other in the sugarmists
where no one ever changes-- on the edge of artifice

our minds untangle themselves
and follow youthful yearnings

to the bowed sky. no one ever stays the same

but every coin is dipped in solace, painted
on both sides, with foolish things

like images of fathers, writers
of our past revolutions and
the winterers of our most fevered discontent

no chapters tell us
what's to come
what our next cliff will be
or when flame reaches fire; instead

we press our teeth to the metal
only risking bone
for goldglory rose to signal our ascension

to the cloud of eli, to tomorrow
and it's raspy-throated wings