errant: divine

crystal synchronicity, an echo in the prisms,
      of the intricacy of knowing just what you're doing -

 like a hundred volts, 16ccs of methadone,
it gets to you, by me, and the liquor drunk from stars
and gold feels like it is another age, another time,
    another three days and you'll be gone again.

 this time the breath between the decimals will kill me
and you will trace the edges of the veins, perfect parabolas
   torn open, lifted fingerprints from weathered dollar bills,

             while it comes together in the emptiness,
      and in this winter wind I breathe deep the silver of infinity
         and bite the steel-wrought edges of my tongue.