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.

yet another season passes

cold winds blow and between
buildings i can feel the shock
of another

friendship falling to time. did
time make agreements with
forgetfulness

or is everything that ends
in bone spurs done with
volition?

when the sun rose slow
and ached as it pulled
only just

high enough, my friend
laughed again and wond-
ered how

i keep forgetting everything.
how i forget the green
grass and

how i forget the summer
dust. see it now whistling
in the cobble

stones. i can’t keep my
mind on straight, i tried
to whisper.

you can tell the skill-
ful life by the flowers
it will bloom,

the Buddha whispered
again and again and ag-
ain, and

to count the times
your sorry mind
has tallied the times
and shadowed
itself
in chalk and lye?

so what can i make of
the smoke around my
fingers and

the browned out vines
that tap tap tap on my
frosted

windowpane?

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?

your eyes move but you stopped reading

there are three thousand ways
to give it all away, but

i stopped writing.
who are words for anyways
just the ghosts we’re leaving behind

here is one:
shadows played out between
fading away fluorescent lights.
or were they neon at times.

it was the first time in my life
i ever thought i was brave.

here is another:
falling in love with winter frost
to belly up the fact that
i can never fall in love at all.

ghosts are only stories.
or, shadows in the back of the cave.

there are three thousand stories
to wrap yourself up in, but

you stopped reading.

i have seen you

did you feel the morning pull on us
with its fingers of wind/
did you feel the questions in her
whispered fingerprints/
is she trying to untangle
our 7 hour knot/

there is a yellowing to the walls i
am ignoring.

or does this wind
wrap these sheets around us
tighter?
maybe there are no questions/

there is the bloom of your heart
i have been hearing,

rising above the old carbonated chokes.
and through the grinds.
and it sings:

i have seen the world and the world has seen me

seedlings

dawn broke cold this morning.

i thought of you the way i always wanted
to think of you: as docile as my dreams
told me to be. then the morning fog shaded
the rolling hills out from the greens and
browns of late winter to the white blues
of obliviation.

gulls danced along the pale orange
plane between the tree line and
wrapped up the easter sky.

i used to be thankful you are now
a whole world away, but these
mornings have taught me otherwise.

gratitude is for the ego.