Pressure

Tasted before, felt between my fingers, run over
in the middle of the road, pre-washed,
shot-out and
trimmed – these words - between my fingers trimmed
with very small scissors and
one clear one cloudy eye.
It all makes
for a dusty croaking sound, a slippery wisp
if a reading of the writing.

So nothing could match
nothing
could match this request in
sheer size,
a reeling, this meteor blaze
a ranting, perfect psalm from his lips
      make mine a metaphor, with a side of
      nightshades (the age loves ‘em fried).
This request, the battle poised on a
      write for me.

       Sure,
hoping mostly to suggest          how blue met green
rather than prescribe a Last Supper.

I pinned it to his pillow,
      look, there it is outside us little one,
      now history little one.