Distance

Distance is the cog wheel on the haunted axle of my hearing, grinding fine the deadened mind of that unborn god waiting to be caught by the earth's blue speed, and carrying in a handled urn the plucked heart - ours, it's beating, it's heard, it's beating, it's heard, a sphere in wild growth - the roads are wet with tears, memory frail and elastic, a sling for stones, a gondola drowned in childlike Venice's, a tooth yanked from the cells with a string - down the empty socket of Vesuvius. And you exist.