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?

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11:36pm älvsjö

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

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.

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.