grace fullmoon mourning son

it is not in the blink
of an eye or a verse lapping
blindly against its own curves,
circling back, climbing towards
collapse. limping through
subliminal postures, it is not,
not a place within description,
nor a region of reason.

a visceral season. times volume
and temperature,
it has changed.

so many, how many
worlds i lived through
to get to
you.

i don't even try
to tell you ...
you have no need
to know the ragged
past, its waves
retract, evaporate,
re-absorb refracted
light from my
recollection,
collecting in
images - watery,
beveled glass.

mine, but not
mine to share.
their surface
worn smooth,
no hand hold
to grasp-pass on.
only this.

us.

what we create.

i'm going nowhere.
now here atoned
at one; such an
unlikely path.
for you,
i'm brave and
better than
i am for you are
better than
i ever believed
in back then,
and then morphed
quietly into

IS.

in the blink
of a verse.

so clear.

i am,
for this moment,
now. here.

absent

complete within itself.
its stance, immediate; its contact
with my nakedness, quiet yearning.
a singular word beginning, pull
pulled by one other building
an entity beyond thought,
calling reluctantly upon thought,
only briefly. meaning's means
towards end:
silence
again.

long strands, eventual,
language sheds itself to
express, build,
gather a clear space.
words long most for
all that they are not - returning,
return, turn over. verse
breathes and dies and again,
silence. its surface ripped open
by light. shadow responds, dims,
draws down into cracks,
patching imperfection with
absence.

broken
silence
its pieces
wrapped random
in words deeply purposed
beyond careful edit.

and still It's left
unsaid. insular, insolent
insolvent stubborn
withheld urge gathering
around itself - taking on
the shape of wanting to
want for something that
may not be ...
permissable.

augment - add to - improve, remove
myself - nothing's reduced;
the pieces cast off persist
within enamel days,
within porous nights,
too bright, devoid of texture -
fused together in defiant widths
towards compulsion slipping into
simple pattern; as if never
otherwise. hunger is perfectly natural
and naure, perfectly
hungry.

a shift in my chest floor, loosening spill weak
waving lines without frequency - heartbeat rough
and sore yet constant enough to offer
incoherent comfort.

morning coming. it will press down
hard. around three a.m., anxiety
waits in the thread holding dreamlines.
by dawn in all its blatancy,
pain's wrapped a series of bands
heavy, adjusting just above
my belly. i've learned to
announce hurt to
myself then
dismiss it in
the same breath.
a breath i never do
give back to the rest.

here.

here it is still
kept.