and again, the gritty path,
for visiting the houses, ruined.
time fled and life stood still,
strangled in suspension points.

i come, to collect lonesomeness,
feed my senses upon bygones.

window sills to inner spaces.
motherhood.

there, the place of a fire,
the grime inks a flame in black,
silhouetted.

crock pots, iron pots,
cracked, bumped.
soup. boiling.smoking.
cendrillons wrinkling
by the fireplace
in yellowished orange blossom gowns.

a skeleton of a bed.

leaning roof.

a wall in blue.

the view from the back window.
the door to the backyard.

houses grow blind.
i come
to lend them my eyes.
willingly.

eventually they'll have me,
bind me, seed me,
a tree-creeper to sight
the swallows, tell them
we have a vacant eave
in a falling roof.

winter ******,
a raw clarity, so wide.
kites winding bows.

take a full hand of words
in a worldly language
and sprinkle the lines
with as much of something
as you can; carefully,
not to split out.

if you reach a slight resemblance
to whatever you meant,
be happy and contented:
that's what you're allowed,
sometimes, but never more
than the transparency of an esquisse,
half-way to incompleteness.

still, you did your best
- and your best-outlined-somehow-you
will stand there, in the open,
a threshold no one really sees,
not even when you think they do.
*(the one in the mirror went silent.)

je veux te voir,
et si ta voix
me le disait un jour,
je veux te voir,
que de déserts
je m'en ferais revenir,
au mirage de ton regard!
hélas, mon ombre
s'est éprise de moi
et toi, tu ne le sauras pas,
que moi, je te l'aurais dit,
je veux te voir.

(spoiler alert: explicit, or whatever...)*


my hands,
cup shaped.
your warmness.
the pace of your
fleeing heart.
your *******,
naked, nibbled,
in my cupped
hands.

days' crumble,
in blue-pencilled
idling.

Discretely.
Seemingly distracted.
Just let it slide,
kind of in a "oops" way.
Get it over.
It will not matter.