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.

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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.

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.

lost in a day-ghost

pull out from underneath the ratted sheets.
the day is old when i wake like this.

this day is bred from wrinkled shrink wrap
and crumpled up ash.

i breathe into and out of the pose the lake holds
as though through the imitation, i could
be the peace the rest of the universe
settles itself into.

pull out from underneath the faded light.
the day is old.

i’ve quit the sticks, i think,
so i can learn to listen to
magnetic pins again.

when you remember to,
come find me.

so just let love be love, or take it anyway

why have you pulled
against my tender wrists

i spent all day
whittling away
just to pull the
strings tight
again

come and breathe with me
come and see that there is no thing
as the falling snow
or the ever orange sun.
those words don’t belong to them.
so can’t you let them
be just what they are?

not even a step is a step,
but you take it anyway.
and a flower is not a flower,
but you take it anyway.