Fuggita
What I need today I find in the pockets of yesterday’s clothes.
Redefined borders, hems, lands, cross stitches and string.
You look at me, and her and him with a penetrative gaze,
That same curiosity bundles you in words and inanimate facts,
and lifts you far above the forests and lakes, and takes you afar.

Our finite history, a predicament of a conditional future,
is for this instance probable, and perfect tense, and your lips
have mapped my body, cut pages on the past.  
I pretend you are Cosimo, adore your plexus and feel 
embarrassed when Ambrose reminds me of true passion.
Sotterranea, or high above barrier peaks I long to 
fly untethered with you.

Cigno Nero
Rara avis in terris nigroque similima cygno
A rare bird in the lands and very much like a black swan


Migrating, antifragile, moving within the fourth quadrant alone.
There is concealled predictability in your unchartered flight.
Stratus subra nimbus, soaring above frozen economies,
financial inactivity in the the northern quarter
Frozen accounts and ungerminated bitcoins. 
There will be no harvest.

Cigno Nero, your senses were not fooled
By what we thought was true of you.
Your inexistence, uncomparative probability,
We wanted to believe had been man sewn in 
In your skin, but looking closely your feathers
Are complicated by a divine order.

As you flew against the sun your shadow so much smaller
over the earth below, but as you neared that sun we
saw as small in the midday sky your large wings
brought blackness over our hemispheres,

We thrived on your warmth, 
Heat - at once generative, 
at once transient from source.
We were comforted by your present absence
Until the axis of your flight cut the earths 
natural revolution, and the light of day shed on us again.