body number 1

i am afraid.
i have wrapped these words in cellophane
and reviewed them systematically. i measured
their tenor and felt the way they set
my nerves into whispering.

i showed these words to the magpie
and he cackled, threw them into the air
and grinned. i was only trying to save them,
theyโ€™re the only ones i can remember.

yet the grass is green again, and green eyes
appear along branches. i am hanging a basket
to catch the words that fall, if the magpie
doesnโ€™t steal them.

i am afraid, if i have the words or not. i am
the body of fear, and it sings when you
ask it to sleep.

i am still dreaming but it is like a scratched CD

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 fridayโ€™s warm lights, and fridayโ€™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
for closeness.

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?

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 iโ€™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 iโ€™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

โ€˜iโ€™ll take you to the
moon.โ€™
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.

i am whispering to the moon to turn once more

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.

smรถrbollar pรฅ 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.