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.

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.

habitat3

how long is the ringing
how long the hour
when carpet threads finally unwind?

there is interest in acquaintance
like how will i pair my silence
with his
or the length of his pause
with the second frozen by his eye?

who is here who can be witness?
who is here who
can let these things fall away?

who is here who can tell me
where to pry open the etched
out dovetail joining

and see how the sun rises anyways?

habitat1

riding a slow escalator within the
smells of rubbed out grease
and it is clean, still,
in acidic fluorescent lights
tiles of primary
red blues and greens

no one ever taught me that life would be so gentle when it became so dark and cold and we all huddle away from one another, pilots in our brains navigating our way but first

letting this shared space be a respite from what the shared space is.

i can remember trails in the deciduous woods like suggestions of erased lines
invisible shadows that suggested use and love

and habit

i can feel such trails now, though tiles hide them underneath constructed surface and sheen.

late july by the lake

i am certain her black and beaded eye
knows nothing of the world
beyond these fading
dried out
reeds; she

knows nothing of the fields her wide
and folded wings will learn,

knows nothing of the seas and
hills and mountains,

knows nothing of the deserts to cross,

nothing of the sleek grey sculpture her DNA
has yet to mold,

only to yelp now above the static song.

week three

i walk dirt paths along bird nests,
finding alone that northern winds teach
one thing:

i’ve forgotten how to speak.

except when i speak to you.

i’ve forgotten how to buy gum
i’ve forgotten how to spit
i’ve forgotten how to put
one foot behind the other

empty blue skies invite
me
everyday.
to sing to the clarity:

you are busy applying
bark to decaying trees.
you are lost counting
threes in empty streets.

i am breathing when the sun rises. &
i am breathing when the sun rises. &
i am breathing when the sun rises.

buds, to look upon

hold my hand, little
tree, see how dirt
bubbles dry and the
sea will turn green.
let it be,
i see whispered in
the lines of the
neighboring
dying birch tree.

hold my lavender
shoot along groves
of forgotten
i miss you ’s
and longing
glances
never returned,

littered in the sun
like dandelion seeds.

i forgot how to
pray and the lie
is i never knew,
never knew.

never knew
i needed to pray
to anything but
a hymnal of
plants budding green.