i am whispering to the moon to turn once more

like the dream of being everything but what we are,
i am whispering everything i have ever loved about you

into the pauses between thoughts, and between each
day that sinks like a rock into the circling shadows

from midsummer suns. the sidewalks are ablaze anyways
and screaming our secrets.

though there is a hopelessness in it: what is the difference
between one sheath of grass and another? is it the

light that twists it or the legs that brush it? is it that
one fiber is consumed, decomposed, and reformed

into yet another fiber?

last night you reminded me the stars flee,
but their light shines the same, so

like the dream of being anything but what i am now,
i am whispering to the grass to catch you.
i am whispering to the sun to forget you.
i am whispering to time to leave you be.

söder boy

the trees are singing and
the sidewalks are crying.
i can hold the daylight in
my hand if it holds still,
but only because i left my
memory overseas.

how many times has she
told you the sunlight is
too bright? what bridge
did you sleep under, söder
boy?

what kitchen let you keep
this day? can you hear
the pace of that thing
we’ve been keeping
refuge from? how many
times has she told you
the sunlight is too bright?

the perfume is slipping
off your
collarbone
from up there.
i am tired of black leather
and chemical dishonesty,

as these shadows are
letting you forget. what bridge
did you sleep under, söder
boy?

what lie let you leave?

smörbollar på en morgon skog

i was pulled aside and led to a place
where dirt had gathered and salt had
weathered and was told to look!
a flower.

and i was reminded that every moment
is an invitation to love.

there are other things on my mind, but
none of them bloom like you do.

i have
been revisiting the function of two people
meeting and initiating a sequence of vocal
and physical interactions, and it is left
with

wondering what might bloom there in a year
or two. did the
squeeze of my hand go unnoticed?

the lichen is blossoming into clouds
of gentle green light. i am in love with it as
no one else is.

tell me that i’m doing it right

in my dreams are these memories
of tall boys playing me philip glass
and promising a lifetime of sweet things,

like dew drops on 4 o clock flowers
and weaving the thread between you and
i until the shadows stop swaying from left
to right and into oblivion.

you are trying to be beautiful boy but
what is in it?

i am built of the sun rain and grass, but
when you speak i am built of the bundle of
stress you’ve used to lace yourself together.

tell me that i’m doing it right, in between
these quiet rains and long trains. tell me
its only a whisper.

tell me there is sweetness in the world
outside. i have in my memory only air
and joy, only light and love.

or should i hold your hand?

finally, there is something else.
besides the salt dust and sea
gravel shifting beneath my feet.

besides memories of wide open
seas and holding hands with a
future that wasn’t mine.

for an hour she followed the lines
traced by raindrops in the loose
silt, and

for once surrendered to herself.
cats tell you they love you this way.

i counted the bloom of white tear drops,
and, couldn’t you have followed
the line i traced for you?

to nowhere, or everywhere

here you are and i’ve found you again
underneath the gentle sand and folded shells.
like whispered winter,

or the time we spent counting the frozen
leaves still dangling from the stoop weeds.

can you please reread this moment in
the gentle sunlight, can you please re-
read the tally of how many lovers have
forced us to becoming?

there are lost souls in the lake and they
are trying to remind us to let go of all
the things we are not.

fold yourself in underneath these
sheets and allow me to trace
something else, lines from every
point of energy to absolutely
nowhere.