moves like
the dusty, irradiated world
between
Us

seven days a week.and
a quiet honor amidst the
loss

sad sisters
sad Sis  . /

//my hollowed out coyote heart .

Both freeze atop the cliffface’s edge to
stay
Hard.

Joyless
Path.

Path.

Taking stock
And making judgment calls,
All.

We are that chemical burn in the world .
Monster in the woods .
Sober-suited in the mad house .

Dream/drag

Middletide.Equinox

I take three sips of water before looking up to meet your fragile gaze.

You very deliberately dribble lukewarm coffee over bare *******,
Thinking to mean something
By
It


—-
You say :

The Underworld is a plane of understanding at its rootmost lv.
The unseen sketch behind the painting.

It’s the bottom of the ocean.
1st sedimentary layer of that which may receive attention.


It inhabits the same 3/4 d places as we,
Yet shinier things cover it up.

//

Excavated  out through archaeological digs,
Through layers of
Carefully structured cities of daily tasks -
Crystalline life :
The salt bricks and landed footfalls of
Each
Generation .


//

An ugly, honest answer - under so many
Pretty
Lies.

eating over the chipped plates reserved for
only /truly// honored guests
we don’t care what we think about eachother
because it’s
             like
f e a s t i n g.

the greedy void hurries away precious, hoarded vapors into a quietly latched  chest    

     full of hours. days. weak-knee, stormfront months and whispered lore of the return of canopy cover to the pewter forest .

the same paths traced out with each rut in the road lines
a cycle of scars in the world like the thirsty, reaching tendrils of a dry riverbed

the skin bunched across my finger bones
splits open.in pious sacrifice to the nascent frost



pebbled gully,
shambled stone hands trying to hold up the
wholething

how do right things get
done_



a  calling card
comes
home.  the mouth of a dollhouse.

a department store with all the lights turned
off.  

the sound of splashing without
source .oh, what  
mud
we
    might     have
       been.