smörbollar på en morgon skog

i was pulled aside and led to a place
where dirt had gathered and salt had
weathered and was told to look!
a flower.

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.

i have
been revisiting the function of two people
meeting and initiating a sequence of vocal
and physical interactions, and it is left
with

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.

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tell me that i’m doing it right

in my dreams are these memories
of tall boys playing me philip glass
and promising a lifetime of sweet things,

like dew drops on 4 o clock flowers
and weaving the thread between you and
i until the shadows stop swaying from left
to right and into oblivion.

you are trying to be beautiful boy but
what is in it?

i am built of the sun rain and grass, but
when you speak i am built of the bundle of
stress you’ve used to lace yourself together.

tell me that i’m doing it right, in between
these quiet rains and long trains. tell me
its only a whisper.

tell me there is sweetness in the world
outside. i have in my memory only air
and joy, only light and love.

or should i hold your hand?

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
silt, and

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?

to nowhere, or everywhere

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
nowhere.

before my hands could recognize yours

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
now
remember
we were here
when the world first was born.