Jules et Jim

We tilt a plank balanced by her,
pushing ground to soar to insecure
heights, a flight that lands bottomless.

Through her we seek to find what is lost
within ourselves, made weak by her
cracked shell, we dwell within her presence
or lack thereof, like doves we fly,
then our beaks streak the obvious
glass, crash into shallow puddles.
The smudge is clearer than our minds.

As our ankles hit the soil,
we tilt our weight onto our hearts,
smother our sense of direction
in the reflection of her scattered
bosom, schisms and wilted looms
we fall through, plunge to catch erratic
mannerisms of an obscure

femme, dim light is our savoir, we
savor the question of her, chase
and flirt with the whims of her,
“especially me,” Jules said. Jim
begs to differ, for the stiffer
part of him becomes limp from attempts
beyond sarcastic-intimate

lips. Frozen frames of smiles, frowns and gazes
blaze his bones, the only moan he
sounds is the sealed lid of an urn.