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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

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