who is alive thinks:

-sunlight

-dull air

          riven with

                     rose smell;


perchance which
the rain with
mingles.


(autumn is near
her dress is fine
her hair is long
and serious,

it throws over
the mountains
and is alive

with crips dampness)


the bed is smooth and deep.
it pulls deeply,
and arms wonder for dreams.

to be dreaming
in the fine arms of autumn;

whose dress is nice
and whose dull serious hair
is
  riven
      with
         rose
          smell.

i loved you
that you were something
easyweak
between the flesh and eyes;

doing with precise smallness
your hands within my hands.

"I tried."

After all, "I love you."

(what more could i do?)

loving tried sorrily a girl
to make out
of too much whiskey
something which

loves it too.

writing–i'm not sure–
maybe this
or that,

to fill perhaps;
between which nothing
is but pale.

the tiny thing life has hands making hands into gold against light
flashing against dark and bones beneath skin the smell of roses
and taste of a girl neck drunk in short hair and black nails chipped
catching in the chambers of its heart the easily nothing blood
that makes its hands to make laughter, saltsun, thighs deeply new
and rush thrusting with quiet silk and the neatest trimming of
health.

how again these alive with men breaths
go to work and stop their living
on balance and "problem solving"

every morning to make
just stuff with which to have
a little this and a little that of
life and drink merrily with

friends, a neat car
and to
(perhaps)
longingly ******
between the lives of others
even more life:

it is completely appropriate;
and to be strange is maybe
responsible if you have an cat and
have to get home early to feed him–

(cats can't feed themselves)

he says under the breaths
he is
going to work
on balance
and "problem solving"

Every  Morning