Sword Swallower

Six seasons.
  Seventy-seven weeks.
    Seventeen and one half months.
      Nineteen and one quarter lunar cycles.
        Five hundred thirty four days and nights.
          Seven hundred sixty-eight thousand nine hundred and 60 seconds.

We spent every one of these units of time together.

Spring
In the shadow of the oncoming storm, a tree shudders within, dropping its' fruit. 
Tides rush before the storm carrying generations to a land with wounded soil where they perish. 

Summer
Numbers are not real. I count them 3..5..23..88, 89, 90, 91..98, 99..115..Habit. See it. Sum it. Submit. 
Pulling, pounding, pushing, breathing, the song of the new cicadas. 
In harmony a steady nightly rhythm.  (701)

Fall
Soaked in an ocean of soiled linen, daring desires, pheromones, swollen lips and coliseum kisses. 
Your spasmodic shell satiated, separates, splinters, shatters, sails straight South.

Winter
Through the long nights I've been cinched tightly together in a sailor's knot, with you filling my sails. 
Systematically you raised the anchor and departed as the sun rose behind my love veiled eyes.

Death
Is where the wine is not consumed.
Is where the unleavened bread is untouched.
Is in me, where love for a child exists that cannot be born.





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