Pluto will implode like a gall bladder in its moons,
the light flips to water and the water to a nameless name,
There will never be anyone driving the motorcycle
through these one-ways strewn with broken glass
among blathering men hating their children,
never a quick alphabet of sun
speaking of lingering and surviving,
never these jails dark in the dirt
at the purgatory of murk and clarity
and a man’s turning—his energetic flight
trekking through picture after picture of imagination
where the past flees, its face sparking like a supernova,
to close its grace and presumptive harm
over my death, and my death is inevitable.
© 2010 Claire Fiori
Concisely Claire 