I think last summer you said the word
in almost life-long drawn-out time,
perfected the gesture with your hand
you’d started prehistorically that snapped me
back, as though we had agreed.
And all the times that I was high, not
the exceptions they seemed to be
but regular rhythms, etherized.
Perhaps I should more patiently describe
the snapping’s familial lingering – as there was
nothing quick or precise; it more reminded me
of a glacier I read patronized in a book
of geologic phenomena.
Because if you were standing close,
at the fortuitous time, you would hear
the generational crack of coldness breaking
free, and see the separate chiseled
facets gliding by.
Hypnosis first appeared in Verse magazine, Spring 2007.