don’t the shadows seem to fall more harshly
from the sky as he walks away
the walk telling you nothing is right
for moments you are deaf and dead dead
I am dead you think
remember the dream
where you thought you’d get attention
by lying down on the floor
but everyone stepped and you felt your
skin crush and no one said stop
that is how it will be now you think
when you think again
all is given up
and exits are the only pretty view
the smell of the rain as it brushes
the tips of my fingers clean gleaming white
like hands held too tight
entwined
and how flowers bloom up through the translucent
layers of her skin soft clear on clear and pale
and all the darkness is like a person openmouthed
in awe of the bright
listening to voices that belong to the talk
of beautiful things in sheer flowing sun sheets
billowing down to us earthbound
and held up and gliding on hands
stretching our hipbones to the sound blue
above
so comforted extended toward the light
words falling from my fist as it relaxes
crests of creamy glowed skin and bone unfolded
and they are scented with
the sweat of flower stems
green and rising
spreading in the cool damp glory of vines
twisting together
slender stalks of movement wreathing
themselves around me
echoing with the shine of the pitch
blending in through our skin all kneaded
and moist we are worked to the supple
I am wrong.
And knowing punishment, I have ordered my dreams in files of
Cannot Have and Will Not Be.
We all look for sleep here,
soothing ourselves to slumber with our hipbone
cradled in our palm.
I am, gently.
So soft am I being that my words
diffuse like smoky breath in the cold.
Transparent so I can take note
of the mistakes in the machinery.
My parts strive for the effortless grace
of movement and gleaming in light.
I am wasting.
And the soft petals of blue night
folded around my memory unfurl to show
moments in which I was not me
and then was perfect instead.
It has disrupted the smooth mechanisms of my thought
slowed the gears of my dreaming.
worn-out glowing time on our faces
sulking clothes
we curl down to pallets
at 4 am
sounds of motion filtering about us
loves linger above our foreheads
each its different shade
our skin dully lit with moisture
watercoloring our lips
mine stained with just-mouthed prayer
we are held high in the heat
the fingers that moved over white
matched each other’s end
notes rose from graphite shadows:
his, held in his hand
wrapped in a cloak of slicing page
he came out to pour
words about the far-off girl
echoing as if she heard
within my round silver thought
his nightly voice spins
tale wretched, tone worn
my brow knit with him
my reticent mouth clasps cigarettes
wearing nothing’s mask
the need to hold his sweet-shorn head
with his newness
roses bloom inside my head
in that blue, bone-colored thought
say the name as often as I can
to feel its meaning in my mouth
taste the action
of seeing his colored cheeks across chairs
thinking of green growth
and the stone I’ll live in
wondering if his eyes will stay
or disappear like runners round the bend
and I’ll have only those
images of skin and night
complaining along stones
he was wide in my face when I opened
the door that morning
picked up the remnants
of himself I’d seen
on the floor
damn the love he focuses
but doesn’t reveal
while our nails slide between teeth
and smoke travels in and out quickly
with our impatient breath
the case of his bed holding us close
like promises
the silence of the open air
falling in the window onto his head
the thin green wool pulled around it
reminding me of my own protection
that keeps thoughts
like mine of him
