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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söder boy

the trees are singing and
the sidewalks are crying.
i can hold the daylight in
my hand if it holds still,
but only because i left my
memory overseas.

how many times has she
told you the sunlight is
too bright? what bridge
did you sleep under, söder
boy?

what kitchen let you keep
this day? can you hear
the pace of that thing
we’ve been keeping
refuge from? how many
times has she told you
the sunlight is too bright?

the perfume is slipping
off your
collarbone
from up there.
i am tired of black leather
and chemical dishonesty,

as these shadows are
letting you forget. what bridge
did you sleep under, söder
boy?

what lie let you leave?

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?

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.

An early spring morning

Below the thin ice another world waits. Here brown-black leaves, sunk to the lake floor, wait for brighter days and warmer water. In the warmth they’ll finally dissolve, finally break free from the bond to material reality and enter the world of energy, of theoretical molecular shapes and eventual entropic mess. But for now they’ll wait, and somewhere else fish wait as well, certainly in deeper and darker waters and below ice more than just a millimeter thick. All that keeps me warm is a cup of coffee, exploding out steam from the top. It tastes like mud and oil, so I drink it everyday.

Along the shore are some birch trees. They stand in a huddled line like a herd of deer budging for a drink at the lake. Their newest branches spring forth with a skin of dark red and purple, straining up and out. In the morning sun it’s as though blood pumps deep underneath translucent skin as a testament to the story inside us all.

Above a pair of bald eagles briefly flies over the lake, just a few times. They are on their morning route, searching for open lakes, where the curtain of ice has draped back to allow their hungry talons to skim their surfaces, ready to sink themselves deep into the piscean flesh they’ve craved all winter. The lake is not ready to give up its bounty, though. They seem indifferent to the situation and soon glide on to other grounds.

I am a visitor here. Soon my coffee has completed its job and my body calls me to somewhere warmer. A breeze picks up the cold off the ice and feathers my face. So it is, and ought to be.