tug

i am trying again
to hold myself into
the pose the lake holds itself. and
friends let these things go
like dried out pine needles.

have you ever felt how the
day keeps tugging at its corners?
tugging is how you know he
has given up the war,
missing you behind the mirror
but

strangers give more intimacy than a mirror.

be free. be free.
be free from the mortar the pestle and
the humpbacked husband,

from taking the whispers threaded into the air
and smashing them into one place.

i am holding myself
into the pose the lake holds. and
nothing falls to time anymore.

counting in 2019

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

to space, with love

β€˜i’ll take you to the
moon.’
and now, with lines
of skeined heat and
refraction.

eyes pass in rhymed
patterns, and words
can be seen like
shadowed slivers.

small whispers. maybe,
promises.

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
you unfold.

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

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

β€” β€” β€”

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.

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.