a correlation of tendencies and surprise-we-are-whole; as never there was a time as good as now and all i can plan is the fall down of this moment into a more beautiful next; momentous as skin blissfully pricked after the warning of pressure or pain or fever or nerves; can i say that buildings have been pressed down into the landscape and that water has risen through floor’s skin and into a flood of well-lit plateaus across the earth, draped always into all spaces; formed again, as once i was the elements raw and unsewn, flipping script smoke across a downtown parking lot, now i am this believing thing, sure as i merged to something in wait for a find like me


shared, as coat racks murmur’d with wait. i wonder how different our tunes could be, melodies flat or sinewy, when we are here in the same leaning shade of our home’s big tree. most nights, i tell you my version of how we first met and thanks for your fine edits. if i do not get to our first kiss in time, i am left alone humming that river sound by our first sleeping spot. found the toughest space from which to express worship and nailed it. nailed it like seeds on a river bank, nailed it like whole slews of bright sky smothering a firstborn in war time portraits.

wake up and fused to a dream, knit, kept, crept upon like grazing weed-grass in tropical winter; un-before, not unlike the now, my body to yours or ours, the shoelace race to home (tucked right under, then over, then cover your past quick like a trap door with laughs packed neatly inside); i recall those thoughts i had when there was no possibility of the present where i now live, how i hung those things i hang this morning over coffee steam and counters wet from dishes, flowers flipping hair in the living room, swimming on the dark grain of our breakfast table; when i fall asleep my chest constellates the constellations and, like the astronauts, carves at the sky to make it manageable, more friendly, more tumbled, matte at its edges, not un-touched by me

the un-moveable, un-lion, roar-shut me; a bouquet of new fatigues – chlorophyll rich (hospital clutches and lilies with dinner-groceries); a kiss-based game of telephone, loan me that last embrace, pass it to the end of its path; sparse standing in perfectly spaced chaos on the dawning patch of grass, just below a tree filled with yellow canaries in brand new repose – on the event of earth’s pulse interrupted by expected demise; a black trash bag moves across your lane on the freeway like an inklot ballast, wayward from its core at the center of a landscape’s ravine from a 19th century portrait of America, homed to a living room that never belonged to you, that you visited once a month or so for a decade; life before the county put concrete between our houses, a soft place for our cars to traverse, before the sun set across a driveway in long legs it expanded in gravelled fidgets; this is my travel toward a be-stilled heart

you think the moth pivots aimlessly, like young love in parking lots (stairwells, porches); you think the sky bleeds blue, somehow more human; you are wrong; i dealt with you in the gauze of midnight’s highway light, my cigarette drawn like a gun, perched between knuckles; bright height, unshade the earth’s green grass and mock the moon for its many houses; my heart still inches over the tropics, skipping storms to oppose you, further away on the cool polar wrath of my wishing; pinned by the possibility of your sound coming toward my house, feet hiccuping soft-flat shivers, bouncing on my screen door

elaborate, strenuous, expensive beauty – unbought and rare-traded from my childhood trust; o perfect and terrible, high-high or something extreme; found the memory of all sad things and put them in a shrine function, told them to stay put and they did, prayed to them without a sliver of wind to make a misstep, how did this happen; i have something so good in you, so strange that i am a slave to it, couldnt regret it if i tried, couldnt cry if i were paid; the chance of us being distant, of looking at eachother in some new way, this would have never been a thing for me to choose three years ago when i wanted to own everything even the opinions of others; i am exhausted by the constant onslaught of things i always wanted and now have; put me in a bear trap and leave me for the lofty to nibble on as a mid-morning snack

do me the favor of opposing me; stuck-out me too far outside of myself and into the trees; and words, one of the last devices i have left to save me from this pit; the bank of our shared sorrows; hard not to empty myself and be as perverse as you need me to be; under tongue, over sea, do you remember that time i fell asleep on a catamaran and woke up on a manta ray eating phosphorescent orgies of micro-life; your rich taste covers me and i walk the block with a handful of wet-dog eyes grappling the pathway to outside