gentle is the wind carrying the past’s poisoned pin

together on the granite shore
risen up in silence
or, hearing
a line of rhythm
from the space between
these lines of long coniferous things:

you smelled the salt of the air.
believe it, you whispered,
as you traced it down along
each protruding bone,
each i’ve cried to in pain
for days they cried to me,
to the place where electrons meet.

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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
salt,
and blooms anyway?

i am the bloom that reaches up high

and i have seen the other,
in snow white petals that
sing,
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
neighboring
dying birch tree.

hold my lavender
shoot along groves
of forgotten
i miss you โ€™s
and longing
glances
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.

seedlings

dawn broke cold this morning.

i thought of you the way i always wanted
to think of you: as docile as my dreams
told me to be. then the morning fog shaded
the rolling hills out from the greens and
browns of late winter to the white blues
of obliviation.

gulls danced along the pale orange
plane between the tree line and
wrapped up the easter sky.

i used to be thankful you are now
a whole world away, but these
mornings have taught me otherwise.

gratitude is for the ego.

life as prototype of dreams

my brother hid
with his friend
behind

(i imagine now
his hair
being threaded by cobwebs older
than we)

the broken red snow sled
its cylinders gasping for fresh benzene
now for years we hadnโ€™t known ourselves

behind noises that belonged
between the trees
in the woods
across the road

behind the lesson
that there is no discovery
if there is no fear

this prototype became realized.
he fixed
those iron lungs, and
i went looking
for the noises that belonged
between the trees
in the woods
across the road