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.

Advertisements

and pushing back, loving back

i always find myself forgetting
the shape of his love.
like when i’m lost
in the constant passing by.

so i’ve pushed back on these
outlines.

i’ve been pulling them back, to
hear the sound inside
life as it
would have been.

and its nothing but the
joy of
empty
early
winter winds.

who are you when you are ruminating at 2am

and there are other deadly things whispered
in the still of late and early night.

such as these sermons that prattle
on like pebbles down a rocky fall,
goaded on
and on
and on.

so i etched into the
yet untouched cavern of
my skull: a reminder.
i am not a pretold story
i am not that which could be measured

not the footprints or the echos
or the faint chalk dust outline
you traced in my sheets
i am not something which is accounted.

this hour will change, and
even the color will fade
as light waves stretch and
we forget to count the seconds.
the I is the woven thread,

dye me now
and count my bones.

we can be everything the moment
says we should be
instead.

habitat3

how long is the ringing
how long the hour
when carpet threads finally unwind?

there is interest in acquaintance
like how will i pair my silence
with his
or the length of his pause
with the second frozen by his eye?

who is here who can be witness?
who is here who
can let these things fall away?

who is here who can tell me
where to pry open the etched
out dovetail joining

and see how the sun rises anyways?

habitat2

i can bring back yesterday
in a breath of august wind,

but
i leave with my dreams
and now, rebuild myself with them.

like tightening the screw on
millions of old joints.
i am only loosed laced together.

every cigarette tastes old now,
and even the trees are sighing now.
light and space in the head rush
and i only rush
to feel earth again.

even the moon is tired now.
even the fall will fall now. for,

i reside only in my dreams
built in-between
fingers and calloused eyes.

your eyes move but you stopped reading

there are three thousand ways
to give it all away, but

i stopped writing.
who are words for anyways
just the ghosts we’re leaving behind

here is one:
shadows played out between
fading away fluorescent lights.
or were they neon at times.

it was the first time in my life
i ever thought i was brave.

here is another:
falling in love with winter frost
to belly up the fact that
i can never fall in love at all.

ghosts are only stories.
or, shadows in the back of the cave.

there are three thousand stories
to wrap yourself up in, but

you stopped reading.

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.