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Chelsea Chavez Mar 2016
this morning
the crows have gamboled
behind the rooftops

in the druz of fields

a hawk peals for

I am too sensitive
Chelsea Chavez Mar 2016
the empty house with a person in it.

“sap of progress”

the dark matter between us
must stay.

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.
Chelsea Chavez Mar 2016

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
Chelsea Chavez Mar 2016
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.  


in a room,

it is a slow dance, and mostly never.
Chelsea Chavez Jan 2016
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
Chelsea Chavez Jan 2016
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


there is a way to remove the clothes
with      out

silence of months

cruor of origins

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

*last night, a body wandered off

showered in woolen eyes
not knowing how to love
Chelsea Chavez Jan 2016
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
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