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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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?

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.

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.