‘I just need time’
Is a thing I say pretty often
But the thing is
I approach everything with caution

I’m not spontaneous
I can’t just jump into new things
I know it’s weird
But I need to know what each day brings

Every new thing
is a mountain for me climb
So I just need to plan ahead
You see, I just need time

Side by side.

Hand in hand.

Dancing under the Eiffel tower at midnight.

The ultimate love story a dance of wind, ghosts at night slowly

intertwining with each other as if the kiss of death is just one moment

away.

darling,
stroke me in this instance
strike me in my temple,
there is patience here;
the ground on which we stand
for now,
knows no fury
the sky is washed with lemonade
and you can see, on the outskirts
a dark, foaming omen.
but never mind him.
we are in an aperture,
angel sweat cascades
like sparks off an anvil
stain the soul with an evergreen petrichor.
we are human. and we are not.

lemonade, aperture, petrichor—
the sky will enrich my hand
with yours.

the word "love"
does not exist
in the dictionary
that is me

I want to crush up Australia,
turn it to a pebble,
place it in my pocket and drop
the coastline in your palm,
all the coral
all the color.

All the dust;
the red,
voices so far away from us-
I’ll capture the sound,
the whimsy for our ears.

Do you see the water?
Flitting by the outlines of trees once alive-
the tired grey and the shimmering azure.
Do you see how it always hugs the land?

I’ll shower it,
I’ll trace the taproots,
down to every underground
that’s ever existed in imagination,
up to every cloud.

Thousands of sheep, soft-footed, black-nosed sheep--
one by one going up the hill and over the fence--one by
one four-footed pattering up and over--one by one wiggling
their stub tails as they take the short jump and go
over--one by one silently unless for the multitudinous
drumming of their hoofs as they move on and go over--
thousands and thousands of them in the grey haze of
evening just after sundown--one by one slanting in a
long line to pass over the hill--

     I am the slow, long-legged Sleepyman and I love you
sheep in Persia, California, Argentine, Australia, or
Spain--you are the thoughts that help me when I, the
Sleepyman, lay my hands on the eyelids of the children
of the world at eight o'clock every night--you thousands
and thousands of sheep in a procession of dusk making
an endless multitudinous drumming on the hills with
your hoofs.