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.

when i fell in love when i was away

I remember dreams like the strolls along canals trembling
your whispers, in my ear, like switchgrass
your hand a latchkey on my hip to unlock
the rest of this place, the rest of you
to rest with you

I remember my dreams landing in the blue of your eyes

I remember dreams as sun-dipped cheese in the park
broiling summer coals surrounding us
like the sense of loss looming before us
I remember loss like I remember you

I remember sleep on the cheap upholstery
industrially conditioned air and expensive instant coffee
bananas and canals and the lack of every eye wondering over us

I remember lavender fields rolling down from just the edges
of my fingertips and exploding into sound and smell and sight
just as they kiss the ground, the gentle lovers

I remember a life spent in an hour
cornflower blue skies hushing the golden grains
cornflower blue eyes hushing your golden hair

I tried to remember the future
I feel I am only just remembering you