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?

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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.

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.

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.

winter lungs

in this dark and grayer world of trimmed hedges,
floating berries, black against wet wind and sopped
down grass,

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.
so,

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
of wind.

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.