slow waltz of sirens ghosts the path


sea spit splendours elusively

near and not near you


but the requiem of space leaves a patient mark


of this

the white curdling on the edge of things

I do not ask the sorrow to stop, but further

to take my grief from me


would unravel the singlest thread yellowing

in my gut


dropping as feathers

:immaculate

gold things

heavier than the world of you


unfolding and folding as a sea of dust


in my serpentine universe


I shouldn’t ever ask it to stop

rather,

as a stone I worry it


cherished as the only open glade

of my tangled mind

all the complicated feelings of outward past us-raking the tawny munich sand
the strange depression asking of itself, and of itself
beetle hymn involute vessel

imperceptible footprints walking towards

then away        array of circles


lounging for themselves the sweetbitter

arc

      of hands

riderless horse, pales in the east

bringing in this fragment of blue,
trampling off the edge
in slow patterns.

at night I am lost.

I am bleeding. I have asked so.

I have nothing to offer you,

but the senna of crawling branches
under closed moon.

absence oils my throat
a purple flux of cessing.

a vagrant hue.

I want your human letters
but I am stained with ink.

the blue floods my eyes
stains the hue of wanderers
at the slant of my door.

once, I thought I knew
my heart

but I am mundane and
cut with sorrow.

I am not forgiving,

just a few paw prints
left in snow.

in a luxurious, shallow sky
I am tethered

to the kestrel

folding itself
to my ribs.

unraveled in the singing

the hemlock spool yellows
in my gut.

I wander my city of pith
as a sickness

asking the hole
in sky
to shut my mouth

to the senseless tune
of what I do not own.

I want to touch the un wholeness of you
fit the tremendous darkness
to air

unreal world
will you move within me for a time?
innumerable arms reaching for hell

motionless limits
within us

we are drowned as oceans
and too dizzy for this
secret

be with me so that I cannot have words

there is some soft space of you always tearing into me.
black claws, coffee laden, drunk from the spirits.

I, a manner of scents ascribed by you.
tallow of night, drowsiness of hands,
wallowing  in the redolent shame
of past mistakes.

we can fjord a victory.  green-lanterned.
don’t mind the clocks.
we, relic of timepiece.

ticking lavender and bourbon and truffle salt
haloed in tobacco screens.

bitter, rapt mouths.

in a disheveled state, desired stupor
for fumbling hands,
the grief of desire
rakes us.

we know what the guilty do.
these streets were chosen.

we posted the lanterns.

oil light gills us.
I do not even regret the time, just the departure.

I am still filled with musk.

separated, only, by this death between us
can either survive, or meander on.

harbinger
harbegere
G. harbor

here/heri[army

beorg[refuge

how the harbinger flies flames
and you dissemble
in her wings