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
how many times has she
told you the sunlight is
too bright? what bridge
did you sleep under, söder
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
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
what lie let you leave?
i was pulled aside and led to a place
where dirt had gathered and salt had
weathered and was told to look!
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.
been revisiting the function of two people
meeting and initiating a sequence of vocal
and physical interactions, and it is left
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.
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
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?
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 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
we were here
when the world first was born.
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.