this morning
the crows have gamboled
behind the rooftops

in the druz of fields

a hawk peals for
something

I am too sensitive

the empty house with a person in it.
asking.

“sap of progress”

the dark matter between us
must stay.

although,
the jackdaws clean the
branches clean as bones.

stalks for white

the roots are full of her fruit,
urchins of red in a congealed space.

we will leave them there for safe keeping.

jam of black,
buttoned as a root dweller

you will repeat what you have said.

I will ask not to uncleave the truth

for safe keeping.

all these birds. everywhere.
there will be nothing left.

imprecise
-epithet


nothing but trees
“__” nothing but trees


sea blue of blue sea of blue
diseased as stars


flowering as orchids
in the descent of a wet lake

we do not chose for ourselves

I held the pool of her in my hand.
A universe succumbing to its weight.

This smallness, of me, diminutive letters on parchment.

A lens, rupturing itself.

There is no way, no way at all to be, now.

We are committed and forbidden to our own fate. Pale hour.
Hourless East.

You give it what it asks for. You always give it what it asks for.
You collapse. Paper house, conformed for service.

The endless hunger, pleads for you.
A dressless ******* wooden knees.

You think you prefer not to go where you are not wanted.
If that were true, it would be easier to leave your self.  

Somewhere,

in a room,

it is a slow dance, and mostly never.

and how shall I fare thee well, pale love

bare foot


pearling under stars a skin of shape


dropping here and there
a world made of rib bone white and yearning


in nets


weaving mulch and roan      and made


pale as questions
crying in stone


how shall I close now


that which has been opened
and misarranged


pour of stars           in a dusty solar system


in a not a world of
have and you

lying
silver lung


a thought (belonging) to darkness


full of violet, red coloured matter


loquacious parenthesis, admitting
of and how         - and redact


ere requisite gibbet


the mute parable of gate
dull eyes strangers a keep
strange of          of


the truly meaningless word


lathe,


there is a way to remove the clothes
with      out


silence of months


cruor of origins


belongings,
her winter hymn


gullet of marble


crop poached and gilt
in hematic bath of       of


the ashamed hum of wrongness


it is not interesting
carving yourself with a knife


the contents come out slowly
bruised-cask of ocher


her     of       she


lain out under stars
strewn in the lope of distress


a hind
untold



*last night, a body wandered off

showered in woolen eyes
not knowing how to love

what strange material


we could disassemble the black
cut the mantle to pieces


yet, everything looks like it is dying, keeps looking for


a mortar for cloth and beetle wings
iridescent powdered plumage


turquoise, for damaging skin


a mark
to remember better times, for worse


times past weaving weavers leaden tongues
these tongues


de-sexing the virtue in -


you look at me as a stranger
I, the mirror of you


there is a fire in the house
it is too much for saying


no one pays any mind to the muffling of small birds