A Too Long Novel

Black air forms rivulets
and flows down the bough of
your arm, meets the intersection
of substance and absence,
hesitates with feline grace,
trapped in that moment before
pouncing,  and exhales the way
sunlight might when introduced
to  a field of sunflowers in
August, a sheaf of wheat bleached
by its time in July, rain dissolving
into the fractions of a prism.

 
Graceless black air, ice,
void behind the fascia of eyes,
oxbow lips, the scripture of
a well-tuned cadaver, dripping
as its illusions melt.