something new was revealed today, and while
time blooms it fills and stretches the latex
edge of day. i am tall. i am sure that my soul
sits at rest.
but are we ready to see what is underneath?
are we ready to dig and go below the peat?
to let go of planes and who we become
when friday’s warm lights, and friday’s
warm sounds, beckon us into being?
i remember his hands tracing down
from my elbow, and
i remember his fingers pulling the
tension at my hips, and
i remember his heart aching
and i saw the world becoming,
screaming from birth pains into
the dreams we had, but
now i wonder if we can say hello to earthworms?
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
‘i’ll take you to the
and now, with lines
of skeined heat and
eyes pass in rhymed
patterns, and words
can be seen like
small whispers. maybe,
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
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 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
— — —
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 certain you are gentle from
the way you strike
or the breeze that carries the shaded
i’m only hours away
i am crying to the cracked open sky.
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.
i was pulled aside and led to a place
where dirt had gathered and salt had
weathered and was told to look!
and i was reminded that every moment
is an invitation to love.
there are other things on my mind, but
none of them bloom like you do.
been revisiting the function of two people
meeting and initiating a sequence of vocal
and physical interactions, and it is left
wondering what might bloom there in a year
or two. did the
squeeze of my hand go unnoticed?
the lichen is blossoming into clouds
of gentle green light. i am in love with it as
no one else is.