naivety slips
forbidden down
I wipe away
with sodden palms
I wipe the way
I slip in paint
wipe moody, spoiled,
wipe then a madness
little and brown
it is no one's fault
or no one's bad
it is rampant Less
stood up to life
with machine breaths
and human noise
sweet sky buckles
as it spreads its arms
rampart then, it is
like blindness
like stumble
forgive me
I know it is weak
when you are evil
I cannot help but break

I am lost, and the cave is blue
All facets of it, some faded, some sure
Crystal tears flicker on the jagged
White eyes, the stones speak nothing
Merely blink as the turnings of lights
In keen grey wells of silence
My life, as a ragged brush, paints
The night to be raw and torn
Leaves the canvas blank for a moon
Throughout the sky are pinned
My letters to the world, flip-flopping
As wild wind horses hop about them
But in the day, in its darkness
I can recall nothing of the colours
The walls scuttle away from me
And the cave, though endless, shrinks
I sit down into the shape of an insect
And feel the firm embrace of lone
Of stone, I begin to feel myself of stone
I rush to the waters, they rush to me
Bleak blue turns me over, takes me
Through months, I sail its roudy mouth
Blissfully unseeing and faceless
Until the coin of the sun flips
And blackness washes everything clean
The sea still, sags to rock, entombs
Itself and me. I am lost, and the cave
Is blue

All night long
I peel off layers of me
thinking up poetry
with my fingers and lips

the little moon melts
and melts
purer than fire

in the morning, I am wax again

Winds, whistles
now all is quiet
paint-brush, sea
your lips moving
speaking nothing
your hands
expressive as ever
my words
causing a *****
by your feet
cluttering, cracking
as you step away

there is no noise
no chirps of the city
no tales of sleep
I run but the running
leads to nothing
I run not to run
or to reach;
perhaps to move
or to cause to move

But the movement
makes no change
the heart is far
the hands grasp each other
like mourning women
the sun is empty
the sky is full of it
houses reek of its reticence
and the people
are out of talks

summer is cold
white, dim, dusty and damp
the pages crinkle like cloth
and when I look up
you are headless

just shoulders, neck, arms
torso, legs
a presence, but
no voice
I speak, I cannot hear
You crumble
I crouch to collect
but I can grasp
at the quiet only

Hello, poetry, how did it go?
I used to lean here not long ago
I used to think the night too slow
I'd stroll for hours, to and fro

Stumble in the morning, grimace
Wipe the sleep off of my face
Don my clothing, make no haste
Tie the gloom around my waist

I'd sling my bag, grab a pen
Set my scarf a bit around then
I'd stand, think, and wonder when
I'd come to see the window again

Everyday I came back and fell
Into the sullen, sweet old well
Light a candle, and then I'd tell
Stories of hell, of hell, of hell

Why not of the big white sea?
In which I feared I'd forever be
I was a little bit scared, you see
I'd paint so, so intricately

One could never have told
All colors else from brazen gold
Still, I could never be bold
I fumbled, prettily, I was never bold

Why, I wonder, now that I'm blind
There is no cold sorrow of any kind
Is there now no hue left to find?
Why is there a silence in my mind?

I am completely, utterly lost