the "inanimate;"
so lively, just at a different speed.
.they are watching;
 stones, tables, bees ...
they watch us
under the weight of
our certainty, in
 time lapse collapse.
we go faster,
when lost.

I. will. stop.

 everything hurts.

beauty doesn't disagree; love
has no opinion. the corollary
between love and beauty
is very strong;
a celebration sitting
in Shiva. the head of a pin
ever expanding, ever the same,
against the odds sans opposition.

there is beauty buried here,
I feel it just under the accidental
ashes still grieving so much
carelessness.

the treasure hunter lacks faith.
I will not touch the handle of
the cognitive shovel; its sharp,
insensitive head lacks discernement
for fragile frostlike edges.

excavation destroys  intrinsic
dependence between relic and dirt -
both are changed and lessened. I don't wish to
see  - interpretation is a jack hammer
against a spider web.

I won't quit my belief in ...
in you.

for reasons I needn't understand
or even hold

through the distorting aid of
memories
- again -
instances rushing - aerations of
insect clouds like parceled moments
flushed up from fissures
in a minute crush
against my face and the back of my heart.

I try to brush them away so I can see
your face unobscured,
while still attending the
haunting,
a part and apart.

without reason's organizational habits, time
shadows itself into ambiguity.
each leaf alike and un
beside her sister.
 each timber creek
 in response to wind, gathers in
 Gregorian hum with its brother.
each memory of rot or blossom turn by turn,
simultaneous thrum, gives what I absorb:
momentum to hold where 22 billion instants
thrust as a blizzard fallen
and re-blown across
 the back of my heart;
face.

without timelines, there's no waiting.
without specifics or
comparison, there's
no thought.
what is left?

just this.
just us.