i forgive the moon
for she does not know
the vastness of the ocean

a new thought is swimming
inside my cranium fishbowl

I see the colors swirling like
little koi in a man made pond

I am not allowed to touch

Should I slam my head against the
table?

Should I let the liquid spread?

or

should I quietly balance

locating my center of gravity

they say there is no use
crying over spilled...

dark i sit
with hands
     carving a bowl
                          holding\chest
digging dark soil
       mouth filling with thick spit
lips seeping

                              moist air of solstice

darkness chatters like compounding bone\shifts
    beastlings drooling  

tasting it. tensing root.

     sipping in(to) darkness

exhaling  bounty

how time slips through these hands...moving with the internal flow...how brutal the friction can be...how warm my hands become....

you hoard a tiny moon
in your mouth

i put my mouth around
yours

and howl

as this comes together

        i promise to not pour out the tea leaves
                                                          ­           soaking in your cup

                 but i will read the story they tell

a gentler world is possible

open your hands