She had permanent grass stains on her shoulder blades
and the skin on her back always carried
the scent and salt of the earth
her hair danced like green fields in the wind
and had the subtle fragrance of lilacs
and though her flesh was tied to her bones
and her feet walked the ground beneath them
her heart was not bound by these same rules of gravity
and was often found swimming
in the space between the stars
and her eyes where painted with scenes
of the sky held up by oceans
and oceans held down by the sky

he could see himself in these reflections
broken and incomplete
and that somewhere in his life death would be there
and this would still not change in the end
and that no life lived is every complete
and last breaths are just interruptions
of what is that turn into what will be

he knew she had mysteries to be
and mysteries to discover
and questions to ask without speaking
and answers that couldn’t be put into words
she was perfectly herself inside
and outside of her human frailties
and she held a comfort
that could only be found
in being comfortable with your flaws

somewhere in the sound
of the syllables of her name
was a love open and free
that needed no redemption
gave no judgement
held no sin or shame
only the willing connection
to those seeking to find something more
than just the infinite stars
splattered across the endless universe
the something of wisdom hidden
in the heartbeat of not knowing
what is still to be found
and finding what can never be found
by anything other than the truth
of giving love freely
to the greatest fears of the unknown

If I tell you
the truth of time
and of nursery rhymes
will you believe
what I say?

If I tell you
the truth of the lie
the one we all buy
will you believe
what I say

When I tell you
the truth of the void
you may be annoyed
will you believe
what I say

When I tell you
the truth of Saint Nick
and you say I’m a cynic
will you believe
what I say

There are more truths than one
under our sun
There’s yours, there’s mine
but there isn’t a line
They are all the same
in this game that we play
and the books of rules
are written by fools

I excel
at the sport
of
fal
(in love)
ling

high on the plant
that grows out of the soil
reaching far against the turmoil
the turmoil called life
the turmoil called death
fist to fist on an endless fight

A cycle of rain and nitrogen
And everything looks a lot like mud
But that's where the stuff grows you know
Where the ancients have fallen
Cause here's a place too sow seeds you see
To spread your wings and fall over and over again
Rest easy
Crash your waves
Flood the sky
Sink into the earth
As here's a place made for no mortal
That's why the sun and stars came to play

So now,
Losing the three last night,
Takeing them back today,
Dripping and dark the woods . . .

suppose
Life is an old man carrying flowers on his head.

young death sits in a café
smiling,a piece of money held between
his thumb and first finger

(i say “will he buy flowers” to you
and “Death is young
life wears velour trousers
life totters,life has a beard” i

say to you who are silent.—”Do you see
Life?he is there and here,
or that, or this
or nothing or an old man 3 thirds
asleep,on his head
flowers,always crying
to nobody something about les
roses les bluets
                    yes,
                              will He buy?
Les belles bottes—oh hear
,pas chères”)

and my love slowly answered I think so.  But
I think I see someone else

there is a lady,whose name is Afterwards
she is sitting beside young death,is slender;
likes flowers.