why have you pulled
against my tender wrists
i spent all day
just to pull the
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.
standing neat under the autumned wine sky
and held under stiff wool as the only option
of nothing else to do
rain could fall in drops or in sheets
and still there would
be nothing else to do
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
i can feel such trails now, though tiles hide them underneath constructed surface and sheen.
i am certain her black and beaded eye
knows nothing of the world
beyond these fading
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.
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
dying birch tree.
hold my lavender
shoot along groves
i miss you ’s
littered in the sun
like dandelion seeds.
i forgot how to
pray and the lie
is i never knew,
i needed to pray
to anything but
a hymnal of
plants budding green.
in this dark and grayer world of trimmed hedges,
floating berries, black against wet wind and sopped
birds sing less and boys wear more. boys that wear the
checked patterns in dyed wool. clouds that look like
wallpaper ash swing through like lines of logging saws.
say that something else comes. magpies are drawn
to such omens, as the only sentinels left, to dine on them
and be ready for that something else which comes.
that something else, that quick at the end of a whip
that something else, the white draw from your mouth
suspended in the light.
store up and live.
hold close and be warm.
whisper goodbye to a present sun, wait through the night
with belly deep breath,
one long way under one constant muffle.
the draw back in will be sharp, and will taste like the
gasp at snow for the very first time, and frozen air
shocked your rose pink lungs, new to the world but now,
again, the world can be new.