still as cold chair,
the sound and the unsound.
the clearing
wanes.
i think of nameless streets
and pry their memories.
when a steady hand reaches
for air, it is an effort to rename things
their shabby selves. their yearnings
crumble underneath awnings of a new,
wounded moon.
the light through
the room, and the shadows it pours.
its working, a quiet punctuation
in mere sentences our own silence,
shattering at flight's first thought.
gravitations may be heavy.
the height verily not its measure.
transitions piled like old records;
trailing the monsoon on our backs,
the persistence of daylight and coffee,
plodding in heat, its vertical crawl -
this metastatic fall.
i dream of old structures. dreaming
is the product of stasis. a consequence
of movement.
dreams can only be too real. there is word
that it thrives where it is assailed.
an act of the body, conversing the limit.