The Pendulum

I dreamt of a pendulum--

of hiding in a chandelier full of spectral taunts,

that you pushed and pulled against my weight,

taking the time not to cross the line of my

vein-potential that outcropped your lusty longings.

And the rot in my belly festered and smoldered

while Earth resisted my flying too close to

the sun again, dropping like an iron ball

into your soup of imagination and calls

that I stay in the middle without warrant for

a new kind of eclipse on a drunken day in

April, when destiny spoke of my silent death,

blood-clotting the streets of my subconscious

not knowing when help would come, or whether

God was still learning how to die against

the weight of its own sacramental lies and prostrations.

But I awoke and wondered why I spent so much

time there, when there is no more Time for a Fall

into sin or nakedness, too golden to wash away,

to walk away in your arms, or ride away on your back,

carrying crystals too heavy for escape.