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
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
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

in shadows, slumbered, in sunlight, sundry’d

i am the bloom that reaches up high

and i have seen them as well between
long hills of rolling parallel veins
etching hope like thinning blood
against the fabric
of my tissue wrists.

have you let me be?
that, which is yellowing
to green,
and seeded in the lines
of lengthening granite crags,
weathered in wind and
and blooms anyway?

i am the bloom that reaches up high

and i have seen the other,
in snow white petals that
of meadows which are home,
and in harmonies that weep.

buds, to look upon

hold my hand, little
tree, see how dirt
bubbles dry and the
sea will turn green.
let it be,
i see whispered in
the lines of the
dying birch tree.

hold my lavender
shoot along groves
of forgotten
i miss you ’s
and longing
never returned,

littered in the sun
like dandelion seeds.

i forgot how to
pray and the lie
is i never knew,
never knew.

never knew
i needed to pray
to anything but
a hymnal of
plants budding green.