5.7

These jagged white teeth that leer from the shade

and are rotting under the grasp of moss

menacingly mirthful in mess they've made

care not for his troubles nor for your loss.

Instead they goad him into glaucous grips

willing him to be consumed by the scud

until rolled over by the wave's wet whips,

tossed like a pebble into banks of mud.

Those 5.7 seconds recalled years;

a lifetime condensed into a fraction

and as the philosopher of Algiers

he imagined Sisyphus' satisfaction.

But in that time he could not change his way

to the cliff's delight and his friend's dismay.

— In Silence —

Alone, under the gargantuan balls of gas

that punctuate the pitch black sky in pulchritude

with their puissant burning — in silence — 

as I walk along the centre of the empty roads

arms outstretched, tiptoes touching

the painted white markings that demark contraflow,

and the tinted bulbs of traffic lights

flash and flicker from green to amber to red — in silence —

signalling to the empty roads that nothing in particular

must stop. I take no heed, rushing through

in half-drunken delight, head polluted by rum

and thoughts of a blissful moment spent with you,

and my brain screams in ecstasy — in silence —

for your presence, as though I could rouse you from your silent sleep,

just as your labial lullaby lacerated my eyes; laconic

— in silence —