Or else

It seems you found me
In such an unexpected place,
In the corner of the draw.
Or the backing of a phonecall, its
Spinal cord ripped out, so that
From it
I could make sense
Of an intention
~ Clear and pure as sound ~
Whence from your croaky urgent voice you
Called me,
Called to me,
And in it there was a rose of truth:
'I'll see you tomorrow,
OK?'
Tapering
At the end
To a faint and gentle question.
(Beseechment.)

And if it wasn't for my own
Hard knuckles of consent,
I swear the flow of
Truth, would
Pass by undetected.
As though eyes had
Clammed shut and
Failed to heed the sign
That is and was the
Fatal omen:
S e v e n E l e v e n.

I've been seeing and in my fate
Recording this,
From clocks and other things
Since I hung by
Tips of fingers
Onto superstition.
Purposes mean more than
Blood and thoughts alone, and
Concrete surrounds to a
Vital core, is
Jackhammered, into
A fallen pile.
And from this
Deconstructive rubble,
Rises,
Phoenix-like,
Proud of plumage,
A
Rose.
On it is a
Simple thorn, a
Simple thorn of truth:
Cut this path I lose another.