Klepsydra

What is the use of talking and there is no end of talking
There is no end of things in the heart.
                                                                  —Ezra Pound

The sky turning from rose to rust, from rust to glass
the way it is in the blood
              The way it is in the purple blood of a fuchsia
if it was bleeding onto the pavement
A drizzle, a stain, a bruised puddle
                              lit by the torch that nobody carries
The one with wings, & the other
assigned to a darker place
              where crystals grow like chevrolets
& I’m sipping from a bottle of sand reaching for another
                                                                                  seaweed cigarette
like the shadow of a wave that has yet to break
                              as the voice-over in rainy esperanto evaporates
from the iridescent scartissue
of one last kiss