The Grapeskins

I.

Squeak.

As we brush together in cheeks

Squeaks to match

the matchstick's white blaze

of indecent exaltation.

Squeaks like the macaws yellow

cries for the clawed confusion

of impermanence.

Squeaks.

II.

We merely squeak, already

torn in half by teeth like thor

hammers, cast from dark crimson

clouds, silt walter vapor, and dust.

We spill our water guts blindly

in the molar embrace. Now,

nothing more than purple and green

flecks floating in the dark.

The match merely chauffeurs

combustions. As the destination

is reached: white, orange, and blue

vibrant burnt bursts of heat

and light illuminate. It's purpose

is achieved in it's seared charcoal

skeleton, bent the only way

fire bends.

From it's perch the macaw merely

squawks. As it sees brief instances

of it's green given world

changing. It's jungle camoflouge

is unfit for the brooklyn pavement.

What with it's centrifugal salt and pepper

plume. And it's rust speckeled azure tipped

wings. It's flight prevents, groundedness,

It squawks.

III.

What if it were, we were the last,

The three of us and none?

Torn up grapeskins, a bird, a match

Would our importance ever come?

Would our mind's macaw fly away?

Leaving my matchstick and just me

or would it in it's sadness stay

In attempts at wingless free.

Or would it occur that we'd just cease

As the humans all are gone?

Would existence matter if it did not please

The ones no more, who defined the dawn.

We are but grapeskins we cannot laugh

So we squeak in cheek at what man can't grasp.