body number 1

i am afraid.
i have wrapped these words in cellophane
and reviewed them systematically. i measured
their tenor and felt the way they set
my nerves into whispering.

i showed these words to the magpie
and he cackled, threw them into the air
and grinned. i was only trying to save them,
they’re the only ones i can remember.

yet the grass is green again, and green eyes
appear along branches. i am hanging a basket
to catch the words that fall, if the magpie
doesn’t steal them.

i am afraid, if i have the words or not. i am
the body of fear, and it sings when you
ask it to sleep.

i am still dreaming but it is like a scratched CD

something new was revealed today, and while
time blooms it fills and stretches the latex
edge of day. i am tall. i am sure that my soul
sits at rest.

but are we ready to see what is underneath?
are we ready to dig and go below the peat?
to let go of planes and who we become
when friday’s warm lights, and friday’s
warm sounds, beckon us into being?

i remember his hands tracing down
from my elbow, and

i remember his fingers pulling the
tension at my hips, and

i remember his heart aching
for closeness.

and i saw the world becoming,
screaming from birth pains into
the dreams we had, but

now i wonder if we can say hello to earthworms?

tug

i am trying again
to hold myself into
the pose the lake holds itself. and
friends let these things go
like dried out pine needles.

have you ever felt how the
day keeps tugging at its corners?
tugging is how you know he
has given up the war,
missing you behind the mirror
but

strangers give more intimacy than a mirror.

be free. be free.
be free from the mortar the pestle and
the humpbacked husband,

from taking the whispers threaded into the air
and smashing them into one place.

i am holding myself
into the pose the lake holds. and
nothing falls to time anymore.

counting in 2019

i counted the number of men i’ve fallen in love with this year
and came up with the number six
but surely it is many more

so then i counted the number of breaths i’ve had
and only got up to ten
but surely it is many more

finally i counted the number of trees that let me be
and arrived at only one
for surely they are not more

to space, with love

‘i’ll take you to the
moon.’
and now, with lines
of skeined heat and
refraction.

eyes pass in rhymed
patterns, and words
can be seen like
shadowed slivers.

small whispers. maybe,
promises.

we become and become,
gears slowing to a late
frosted sun, and a choir
of summer dry-bleeding

and an early moon, under the light of which
i fall as well to shivering petals. which
you unfold.

again in the late sun the notes
of steps weeping from heartbreak
squeeze through our windowpane.
more of everyone becoming everything
more of life bellowing
of life refusing
to be anything but what it is.

i immigrated to a place where no one recognizes my love.

the world is filled

the world is filled with beautiful men and the base monochrome tile that listens to a baby crying over how long it has been.

i’ve watched you sigh at this like another vhs repeat of life in blurred polychromatic fuzz. computers were simple while we lived in explosions of fabric and

— — —

in waiting for love i wait for the 10:30 arrival at a terminal where no one knows each other’s name. we search and wait for so much to be unwrapped but what can we do without so much mystery?

i have been waiting and watching my breath like it is the last thing i will be able to grasp, grasping it like i did between nights under stars and moments of bliss.

live in a red house out on the grey in the baltic, where the surf fills chambers with emptiness and fastness and nothingness but what it simply is.