Month: December 2024

Not same; but are in meaning and

not meaning

and yellow hands and

penny-a-pocket, What? Or is it?

Or the tradition of analytic swans, their

spread of hollow calm.

Yes we are run. And come in

pursuit of frail concerns.

Our ears are wrapped

in gauze, alongside the pool,

frailed. Before

Jahweh’s exultation, lungs

peeled. Seem to be seen

as a struggle with

pulse before shut off the lamps

and wish for flame.

In spite of. At the bottom

of the world, supine

on beds of dire herbs.

Crazy-headed by the fountain

of slow-quick.

Lie there, you, a riddle under

dimestore sheets, such as washed on

the world’s last day and redolent

of tattoo breeze.

As fallen into soft lumps, part

and parcel, measured in rattled

shades, slanted to the sight

of not them and not when.

Hey there honey,

nudge and a wink,

shove me loose-back, put down

toe-to-top, roll thin lines with

that silly mouth, take guilty

gilded nourishment from a lord-god

not anywhere we can point to.

The voice of your pulse, a

hemlock whisper under my finger

and tucked into the mattress,

maybe. Where bitter-sided mites

nibble and invisible magnets

draw us together in release of

days. And what were you once,

a ghost kiting high on chill-bone

breeze. No care about cold or

height. Slipped by me across

ruined roofs, through bare elms,

the road a melting narrow. Past

the sign that read SLOW. Past

fields where sunflowers gamed

a path of no retrace. SLOW to the

never warm winter and flecks

in the fog pretending to be crows.