Two Fascinations

I.

Leather suits you, fag smoke becomes you, haloes
in a strange way. Other than that, you don't seem
bound to much; your seasonal image wax-wains,
rebirth in the change of a wardrobe. What's left?
Only your faces.

These, however, fascinate; furrowed, stone-set,
each a cogitation dark sunk in sadness.
Lurid darkness pleases you, somehow; hence your
long, sometimes incongruous smiles, wide, slow eyed
wiles, and sick laughs. Yet,

when I saw the photograph of your Mother,
on the cliff top, with you beside her, I thought;
'Smiling was a different thing then - a careless
thing, because you needed no reason why, when
you were a daughter.'

II.

Sparks make traces, sounding like shot light sure-fire
boundaries, unbonded and free off glass walls
toned like pale skin, voyaging random trails, 'til,
blown still on, and faster each time, with each and
every collision,

jet in foiled flight through the electric city,
duct thence into rivulets, then in fingers
track to white-hot terminals, which send signal
beams in pulsing radians, urgent like birds,
far as the spar's stretched,

thin-wired, wide extremity, where it reaches,
finally, its ultimate detonation.
Then; thoughts too unwound for words, whitened
ash, unfallen; particles, smoke; this is your
circumlocution.