cxvxi.

if the night lingers on,

and it will

and you find yourself on
the edge of things,

in between worlds, drawn
back, the lines on the map
sharp

cut like wire, through the air,
and here and there

cut like glass

two plates passing by each
other, clear 

except for the blood
at the line, 
along the edges and 
flowing, in rivulets

on the land under them,
it's the edge of one thing
and another,

that makes the difference
between blood and water,
people bleed
it matters because

they can look around
and up,

and it's the grimmest joy
of the darkest
impulse to turn their 

eyes to water, to
trap their souls
in mud,

but, bone is rock,

and eyes are 
made of water, but

only as transmission 
line, without coordination,
they 

easily escape to rain,
slip across the land
and fly into

cloud-cover, beyond
any hand,
and bone is hard and sharp
before it goes to sand--

--it does not go quietly,

and any hand raised over,
dust and shards and water,
raised high over

a plain, flattened to mud
and dust--will flash

and fall to cloud-cover 

eventually, 

even if it's not soon enough,

water does not disappear
even asf it flows.