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.
