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Deciduous ache Anchored trees in swollen dust Pooled apart in rain. Glazed sun gleams through blue, Overwhelms the bird’s descent Cries lost on old glow.

here is your hair. fingered and cherished as an open organ, creeping from its cloth along the L line here is a glance from man with bright white feet, small hands scruffing coiff in train window here is the moon. all rays diffused silent on window sill — on train and in your room, on the ground Here Steps March; commuter rail in corridor and station and here is the tail of a dog you saw on the L here is a smile but still rays refuse to speak and here is smirk as they trip away. under your feet and over here is drunk men still drinking and spilling themselves around you onto pavement Here is a street stricken with shadows and here is the simper you offer to the crosswalk so it gives back the purse here is the bar with the COOL lights, here is your fake but here is your curfew and here are your parents and there is your house so here is where you glide along rays until you realize you’re up and stop for a sec

Water laps at shoes and hem Pursuing pace of men Gulls, across the sweating depths Call to brethren Clouds aloft like bunched-up smoke Settle through your nose Ringing scent of new-spring-wiles Courses: ebbs, and flows Angles float as clouds divest From shrouded, rising sun In summer and in winter’s glow Ducks dive one by one Passing wisps of blossomed air Tangled in our ears Swim to Brooklyn o’er breaths As mallard reappears.

“it is easy to imagine love as a flying Thing, with wings of silk and clawed feet that climb the skyscrapers when it is dark enough for white feathers to fade to black, when it is quiet enough for noise to settle below us so that its call is not heard. it is easy to imagine Love as a lonely thing, whose words drip as honey from its mouth but settle into ravines and oceans and sink below the grass’s roots rather than glaze a lover’s lips — it is easy to imagine Love as a thing that exists without time or nature but then again that is so hard, it is impossible.” “love is a bird as you say, whether it is a bird without time or nature I could not tell you. It is a bird with wings of silk and clawed feet and honey words, but it is those things only as a walnut shell is a walnut. if it were to consume us we would burn from inside out, and our eyes would melt at the sight of it and it would infect every one of us until it was alone, really alone, until the oceans were deadened and trees b...

i burned my finger once, trying to feel a cloud bodies are composed of little tiny wisps of smoke components of a living mass enveloped in— white haze, struck by a match but filling in a way it’s been impossible to depend on such a rush. it may have been stupid but I burned my finger once, twice in the same place or maybe not, but, it felt the same, like pressing down a button slowly, deliberate, it hurt but not a lot. I burned my finger, once it was always to feel but wisps are intangible, so the ache delayed and the stinging immediate, dulled by the impossibility of a wisp but not enough a recreation of a declaration of my reservation, I swung along the white wisps and sang a song of remembrance but I burned my finger and the jolt sent me back to my head.

Brown bark stretches to no end Far as Eye can see Leaves have sprinkled ground below; Reflecting canopy Air, and light must angle 'round Protruding acorn caps As they sift through dusted trunks In petrified relapse Birds of wing and feather dine As berries strain to burst Hawks applaud with whoosh of air As Fledgling kills his first Chicken egg adult and child Course of forest brought Pulsing stream delays the tides In mesmerizing thought Secret light has come to pass Encased in solemn gels; The sap of hardened, timeless trees For which the Earth compels In aching limbs is wood's repose A glimmer of a sight The tones of black-run elegance Embrace a human's night And thus the tale of tempest ring In birth in life in death The trees will sing a song of sin With final, heaving breath.

Glory crimson crimson crimson a decadent display of foaming mouth and clenched jaw, how could intangible tension turn to such raw, intended emotion how could the dances we drew on become us and all our motions cruelly sifted words spit from the devil inhibit our conceptions, pretensions how possessed, obsessed we are to fix what’s been taken, by the. crimson crimson crimson

We are past blue Onto gray I’ll lean on your shoulder touch hotter than the sun.

There’s a time when wind whisper stills to gasp in auburn Skies and hair whip gently as called, fury released in Little tiny drops of water and they dangle from the edge of Clouds, languid in gray-scorched sky and nowhere else at all. There’s a time when scraps of metal burn from tractors in heat and Sun falters over oceans clutching tender scrapes, rash and Leaves flutter through a nightless sky beached in a dream while Birds sing wide and low following the path of the moon. There’s a time when blue folds to crimson, that’s when I chart your hand over the roots.

rain falls to my palm i sleep just to wake to see the red of my rose.

And here was the bowl — a curious, misshapen thing her mother’d brought from India, where she’d danced under the stars and moon and sung songs native to a place for which she had no affinity. All she’d thought to bring back was a bowl, for she couldn’t fit the moon, and the stars in her luggage. So on the third day of her visit she went to a shop that sold old wooden things, and she bought one for herself and one for her daughter: a curious, misshapen thing, cracked in three places. Worse for wear but smooth to the touch. It had existed somewhere else but now it could be bought and so that is what her mother did. It was very much a bowl, if you say the word a hundred times it starts to sound how this bowl looked. And the daughter, whose bowl it became, had no use for such things with cracks and scratched wood, no matter how smooth and no matter that it held the moon and the stars which had held the song for her mother. And so the song died, a damp and dark death sitting on the she...

honey drips along her throat echoes ; crawling softly she relishes in the way it exists an amber color, gracing her lips bubbles suspended, encased in thickened gel It Rolls — glancing around its cave it is alive, inside the pink walls frantically trying to disseminate, amber-skimmed-pink in a sea of saliva it feels the slide of tongue o’er teeth She Swallows — honey gone, the sweet remains he poured on compliments until she was drunk with amber bliss.

“flight” I’m not a sensible person there are 5 crows on this hill looming looming; one will fall the others fly gone away

Look to a pull of that good-time, homegrown silk, fancied a drink at a bar in Milwaukee. been seeking the gray of those winded clouds and those red pea shoots poke up through triangles of the breeze and mangle shapes in the sun. Native tigers send stars hazing through it all Isn’t it beautiful Isn’t it

days like pages wasted in words + drenched in sweat and drenched in caramelized dancers singe the edges of my coat wave kisses to her beauty, the blue of her dress they betray me so i glance one way and the next to kiss her she always knew what i didn’t it’s a sycophantic sound like a simpering or a stutter that my heart makes when she bends cluttered in affection aroused in contention she always knows what i don’t. like pages tell me how i feel.

“The Makings of a Brain” fragmented wisps ; painted white in mind devoid of light but not of jeweled, stunted clarity creased heavens above my hairline, delve into tightened corners stretch of memory, dark in dreams geometric angles marred by charming discontent. Enlightened — the formation of new of old and new and new of old of slackened breath and widened lips filter wisps through mirrored tension, ache to singe, and to dissolve in warmer embrace than cold precipice of charted mind.

Last Climb tortured white on canvas bulbous tension, grasping arms sweaty collapse on mangled sheets — a painting of panted release naught captured in the day only cherished at night, under guided eye and singeing moon burned phrases into mind for lack of sacrimony, testimony to the act and crosses stand erect on winding roads near ruined homes as we pass we moan for Moon and long for Sun to die on peaks of ashen, ancient snow.

poised in recursion on a stoop she glances left and smiles devilish in all, elusive angel glow the steps to a house i haven't been to in a year.

The buildings weren’t tall. He was fumbling a bit with his watch and then he was walking again, even faster, clutching the bag to his chest and staring nervously out into the rain. The brick was pale, a gray-red that he checked constantly, holding his hand up to shield his eyes. He shivered. His boots echoed on the ground as he walked, one, two, and again, quickening as through frightened each by the other with every stride. He was scuttling now, like a little beetle burdened by some small meal he’d found, checking the rain all the while with his hands, stopping here at a light, there at the sound of a car, to glance at his watch. For a moment his hat slipped, the shadow lapsing to show a curved mustache. A tooth flashed as he snarled slightly at the storm and yanked it back. He trudged ahead. A red car veered around a corner behind him and he swung the whole length of his self around, coat swinging wildly in the wind, bag dissolved seamlessly into it, to lean forward and stare ...

The wind sighed in its haste to send them back to the ship, and the little boat eased along frustratingly slowly. It began to whistle through its planks, so Jane began to whistle too, in what she hoped was an encouraging tone but which fell flat over the screams of the waves. Angrily, she sent her fist into the prow, but the boat simply groaned and pushed on at the same pace. She could see the cloud clearly now, in all of its dark, austere quality. It rolled over itself, flipping and tumbling through the air in shots of charcoal air tangling so quickly and seamlessly together that at times it all seemed one woven grey cloth. Even the intense focus the crisis offered her could not withstand the impulse she had to simplify the distended gale to one mass: she found her eyes refusing to acknowledge its distinct flurries and shook her head. She wanted to take it all in, that storm which would take her. Jane began to think that she had never before been witness to so accurate a visual...

sweet mouth of that descent reaching through the clouds to pluck at matter. sweet gloss and glow of a tree muddled in haze fog and partial consonants surrounding turning leaves around mush of Autumn trunk benign hello glory.