impossible, and always

Still, we rise as the impossible children of summer, but cracking our bones behind our backs, those wishes once wry, now broken.

(we wait—we wait—we wait.)

But my hopes do not—that you stand to contain that which bucks, that rebukes these stars. No, my hopes are both horror halves and blessed-on-flames. They are as loud as the passing, that ears lick to blood, that comforts are thrown, that strayness must throw back.

I need not create for my hopes do take arms, and whole ghost pictures, they will live.

If only till you turn—away—passing—last—eyes—now.

If only for being told some shot bird of truth.

(ragged, that betweenliness.)

My hope is that you finally see me. I hold want of a small chance, a paper cup of an infinite.

And this is banished!

And this is whole!

But my hopes are juggernaut, till the last gnash of the clock, till you hold to take a body, and I fold a tarot card in half.

That is a truth, however smacked with shrining.

That is not a truth, but I give it breath.