this year i will be disappointed less
finding myself staring at blank ceilings less
wondering why i’m here less
wishing i could just put it together less
and just letting it all happen anyways
for my sin grows in the cracks of driveways
drought and cement and pesticide be damned
so sat john on the timber
an invitation had been lost
to colliding waves, set
along by the great green
listen to my dreams,
one could be the sun,
drawn by the shadow.
echoing audio into
standing rippling waves
who sing the shadow inside
standing neat under the autumned wine sky
and held under stiff wool as the only option
of nothing else to do
rain could fall in drops or in sheets
and still there would
be nothing else to do
before this shore was torn
from the sun and the moon,
before my hands
could recognize yours,
here is where the thread of the day
blends with the stitching of the night,
where the earth covers herself
with oceans of grass and tides of echos.
like the way the snow recognizes
the early winter wind,
like the way the water
recognizes all things in turn:
hold my hand
we were here
when the world first was born.
i always find myself forgetting
the shape of his love.
like when i’m lost
in the constant passing by.
so i’ve pushed back on these
i’ve been pulling them back, to
hear the sound inside
life as it
would have been.
and its nothing but the
and there are other deadly things whispered
in the still of late and early night.
such as these sermons that prattle
on like pebbles down a rocky fall,
so i etched into the
yet untouched cavern of
my skull: a reminder.
i am not a pretold story
i am not that which could be measured
not the footprints or the echos
or the faint chalk dust outline
you traced in my sheets
i am not something which is accounted.
this hour will change, and
even the color will fade
as light waves stretch and
we forget to count the seconds.
the I is the woven thread,
dye me now
and count my bones.
we can be everything the moment
says we should be
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
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?