the moon is
so much better than
the sun,
taking fierce light
head on to let me look deep,
without fear and wide eyed, into its calm face.
the first bird, long before dawn, somewhere between 3 and 2 a.m.
folds itself open, in an ode to fractal patterns,
reminding me that i am
the green breath of a fallen forest
which did make sound regardless
of who did or did
not hear.
imagined absence, beating back
illusions persistence within
cause/effect - enormous
moth hung at the window;
i hear only wing-shuffle.
a deck of cards played
like a gamble
at light’s jawline.
my heart swarms there, held firm against the back drop of “instead.”
thin lidded, weak filter – i still feel
you, bright on the other side -
a glow, out and back from a cloud front
in backslide.
agile and weightless, thief-like anguish,
a flash temperature i can’t
measure against my own skin,
making itself clear as an “is not”
- isnot there to touch, though it does so
touch me. flowing slick, sibilant winter
entrained to the same old same soul silence, sown
in an in-between that snuck through harvest.
few words in language, few that hold meaning to coax
unrest towards its fuller form: beauty. an ash
flicked off consciousness, a pencil lead feathered
through soft paper, impressed and made right - just
write with greater speed than a hand can long hand,
'til the page lets out innocuous flame,
sustaining itself, yet unconsumed.
insurgent sensor
ship in a base fog, the ground
lifts, disperses, engages
speech, supple yet weak and loose-pivoted
in stifled invention where the high pulse
presses on.
a wooden heart on an orange stick,
bubbling voltage, again. again salvaged
birdsong strung bright through pitch black.
let cats have tongues. voice unwinds
in a silent workaround, doing away
with sum total sounds drowned in personality
and intelligent observation.
reach - something beyond the cowardice of proper grammar and
clever "ness." my hand presses back my own skin,
opening it like an analogy, seeking an incision that heals,
seamless as a water fight surface
sliced to shreds.
there is no record of struggle,
no mark left by breath,
wreckage along my ocean floor:
all is valued, all is
treasured.
