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

β€˜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

β€” β€” β€”

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.

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.

sΓΆder 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, sΓΆder
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, sΓΆder
boy?

what lie let you leave?