these things are my house, the
house of my body and my flesh
swing singing
singed and swaying
over grass cut freshly short

the knots and roots
of who trees blister
through the soil and meet
with feet
their rough and earthen body.

there is a light piercing the dull
night crisply hurt with twinging
of star song shaking and excellent
inside the smooth nearness
of its dark skin;

my hands make quick fingers
into nice fists of daylight
catching the strummed humming
of its string sound–borne over
the mouth of a mountain–
vibrates and intense.

i walk and the chilled asphalt
is the tiny sound of my feet,,
these halls of night
a rembrancer
and so newly full of nothing
stink with rose and thyme.

i am alive–
i hurt to love and to love
is hurting; my dear i love you
i told you a thousand times
(and a ****)

i'm sorry because both.

i will live
–i guess maybe–
or i will die becoming
worm pursued eating
the earth as eating becomes
me

the            new          grass

which
(freshly cut)
grows under
the house

of your body.