I won’t reason this over anymore. It is an unkind fruit.

This is how we say, without really knowing what we mean-
the pale impressions of a furtive heart.

-how everything blooms in this prism,
the fearful knowledge of nothing more,
the wilting hope
the changing glass

how soft everything seems now
and alone

my contrariness lies
as bodies in the sand.

The years leave me in misery
and I lose all definition.

I am still.
With boldness, I lose everything.

I am looking for a place to return to.
I have no strength.

I find myself exposed, one skewed shadow
pulling roots beneath the sun.

Overnight I became wary of everything.
I remark at my own existence. That I could walk away from it.
As all colours part from me.

I open my mouth. I am full of willows and moth wings.
I look for words. I find the old ones and dig up
empty rooms.

I have become so simple.
My anger slouches in the corner like a rook.  Shuffling, always shuffling.
But he will not speak to me.

This is a living thing.
The paradox is a minor landscape.

No time believes in me.

I will say it again.
I woke this morning and found myself missing.

How you become a part of the earth, and away from it.
Grab your furs and your moss. Pull them closer.

I have tried to walk near the entangled forest.
Its belly is swollen and impregnable.

Its warm tongue flicked at me. “It’s just a fever.”
Though you flail your arms dismissively
as though to ward off danger.

There is a malice in everything that whispers.

“It’s just a drop of blood,” you say.
Though it draws you out in anger.

It doesn’t mean something.
Though your eyes are prophetic, crowing for the dead.
Still.

Everything in unity.

This white morning may destroy me.
How I bend and unbend without my acquiescence.

By nightfall my eyes will be moons.
I will open for a moment
and blink out.
Swift as dust.

Your love is illiterate.

My needs are too far within.
I am primitive
and will never be satisfied.

But how I will cry and pine on the strings of this instrument.

Place your palms on the soft animal of my body.
Find me.

I am unaccounted for.

I become frantic in my silence.
My gravity becomes  pinions.
A volute **** in the ether.

Such will you, I.

There is no means to entering the gateless gate, though you will try.

My body is numb, and I am senseless with the roaring waters behind me.

It will not desist.
This endless sea, forgets.
So the blur of organs, the blundering cold of a concept.
I am non-matter. Absence of all things, in me.

Here is a story of ignorance: something.

How I become sick on my self.
My mouth is wooden. Knowing, what can be said?

We lose sense of sense.
Soft, and vulnerable fawn, intractable in the tall grass.

Do not love the uncast word. Forgive.

How you have unfastened yourself from me molding red clay in many shapes.
Relentlessly fashioning versions of thing after thing. How I distort in every mimesis.

What you are looking for refuses to be found, though you spread the red everywhere.
Futility becomes of your fingers, too nervous for sewing.

The frequency of this life distorts on you, and you see less and less.

Sole star of sky, unthinkingly, in the dye of yellow, verses you in elocution.

Parody to mutable earth, shall the shadows of stars turn aside?

Belonging to time has its perilousness. In fervor you have underestimated the vulnerability
of the infinite.

We too have wounded, and been wounded.

The heart wavers at the threshold of an uncommon door.
Imperceptible boundaries have multiplied like trees.

How to be water. How to be, they seem to say, stretching small arms in every weak direction.

The angles have become too much for me.
Time is what I ask for, so I may ***** my words for a certain moment.

How unthinkingly you have carried on into an isolate realm.

All worlds pull from me now, as though offended.

In my dreams I see a woman stretching, always stretching towards.
We do not talk about the arms. How they wilt this way in curved angles.
Forest full of ferns and green light, emerald depletes her.
Though she manages the mud in an absence of water.
When it is darkness in a soft womb I can open my eyes.
I see my own ignorance.
Long lines of imperfection threaten the threads of light
closing their wormy mouths over the seams of night.
I am afraid to look at myself.
I know what desolation lurks,
ranging, imperfect, well-bred
beast, calling longingly to
the incomplete latitudes of forest.
Encroaching the barrenness,
I find my body occasionally,
covered in wet leaves.

There is a time here. Everything has turned quite flat.
But I do not resent the sinister feeling overlapping my worlds.
A great whelping worrisome feeling fills me up.
And I am encountered one by one by dreams
I will not remember.
I am a gentle touch. I have left scorched earth everywhere.
I am still hungry.
I too have lips. They also are chapped each morning
from the bitter rinds that dreg from the sea.
I cannot account for time. Nor do I wish it.
I cannot hear the space or the conviction
that will sway you.
From me, the reflections have dried up.
I have become a foreign presence in my own body.
Neither truth nor wholeness matter.
But a lingering darkness.
The wick of all things.