habitat3

how long is the ringing
how long the hour
when carpet threads finally unwind?

there is interest in acquaintance
like how will i pair my silence
with his
or the length of his pause
with the second frozen by his eye?

who is here who can be witness?
who is here who
can let these things fall away?

who is here who can tell me
where to pry open the etched
out dovetail joining

and see how the sun rises anyways?

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habitat2

i can bring back yesterday
in a breath of august wind,

but
i leave with my dreams
and now, rebuild myself with them.

like tightening the screw on
millions of old joints.
i am only loosed laced together.

every cigarette tastes old now,
and even the trees are sighing now.
light and space in the head rush
and i only rush
to feel earth again.

even the moon is tired now.
even the fall will fall now. for,

i reside only in my dreams
built in-between
fingers and calloused eyes.

habitat1

riding a slow escalator within the
smells of rubbed out grease
and it is clean, still,
in acidic fluorescent lights
tiles of primary
red blues and greens

no one ever taught me that life would be so gentle when it became so dark and cold and we all huddle away from one another, pilots in our brains navigating our way but first

letting this shared space be a respite from what the shared space is.

i can remember trails in the deciduous woods like suggestions of erased lines
invisible shadows that suggested use and love

and habit

i can feel such trails now, though tiles hide them underneath constructed surface and sheen.

your eyes move but you stopped reading

there are three thousand ways
to give it all away, but

i stopped writing.
who are words for anyways
just the ghosts we’re leaving behind

here is one:
shadows played out between
fading away fluorescent lights.
or were they neon at times.

it was the first time in my life
i ever thought i was brave.
the idea is a lie, though,
no matter when you say it.

here is another:
falling in love with winter frost
to belly up the fact that
i can never fall in love at all.

ghosts are only stories.
stories, only shadows in the back the cave.

there are three thousand stories
to wrap yourself up in, but

you stopped reading.

late july by the lake

i am certain her black and beaded eye
knows nothing of the world
beyond these fading
dried out
reeds; she

knows nothing of the fields her wide
and folded wings will learn,

knows nothing of the seas and
hills and mountains,

knows nothing of the deserts to cross,

nothing of the sleek grey sculpture her DNA
has yet to mold,

only to yelp now above the static song.

week three

i walk dirt paths along bird nests,
finding alone that northern winds teach
one thing:

i’ve forgotten how to speak.

except when i speak to you.

i’ve forgotten how to buy gum
i’ve forgotten how to spit
i’ve forgotten how to put
one foot behind the other

empty blue skies invite
me
everyday.
to sing to the clarity:

you are busy applying
bark to decaying trees.
you are lost counting
threes in empty streets.

i am breathing when the sun rises. &
i am breathing when the sun rises. &
i am breathing when the sun rises.

i have seen you

did you feel the morning pull on us
with its fingers of wind/
did you feel the questions in her
whispered fingerprints/
is she trying to untangle
our 7 hour knot/

there is a yellowing to the walls i
am ignoring.

or does this wind
wrap these sheets around us
tighter?
maybe there are no questions/

there is the bloom of your heart
i have been hearing,

rising above the old carbonated chokes.
and through the grinds.
and it sings:

i have seen the world and the world has seen me