finally, there is something else.
besides the salt dust and sea
gravel shifting beneath my feet.
besides memories of wide open
seas and holding hands with a
future that wasn’t mine.
for an hour she followed the lines
traced by raindrops in the loose
for once surrendered to herself.
cats tell you they love you this way.
i counted the bloom of white tear drops,
and, couldn’t you have followed
the line i traced for you?
here you are and i’ve found you again
underneath the gentle sand and folded shells.
like whispered winter,
or the time we spent counting the frozen
leaves still dangling from the stoop weeds.
can you please reread this moment in
the gentle sunlight, can you please re-
read the tally of how many lovers have
forced us to becoming?
there are lost souls in the lake and they
are trying to remind us to let go of all
the things we are not.
fold yourself in underneath these
sheets and allow me to trace
something else, lines from every
point of energy to absolutely
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
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
did you feel the morning pull on us
with its fingers of wind/
did you feel the questions in her
is she trying to untangle
our 7 hour knot/
there is a yellowing to the walls i
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