i bet time is a legendary snake

i suspect a wave
a winged thing a
night trajectory
to swoop in erasingly
to rend chimera from
mache, crepe dresses
to rain fluttery, stick
in the anorexic branches

i suspect a new nations'
flag to be a shoehorn or
virtual kiss, a magnet or
ouroboros emblem pinned
at the ire of god to
the breastpocket of man

we know what direction
the wind will blow tomorrow
at nine a.m. and we set sail
accordingly, half mast to
billows but a silk lined
coffin just won't do, we
need bacterial linament

the dearly beloved is
no lie, but a dream of
cut grass, ankles combined
moontipped fingers, and
wine, a reluctant infinity
in the face of time