in
digestions
of
these days
we hunt for feeling

tryptapath


her dark irises
fill with light


but that’s not
what i mean

stone-sighted
medicine.breath
the snow-fallen
                   heart

   aimed home
             -
and in all the parking lots,
and lonely gasstation-checkoutcounters
the howling things that dare to:
howl out

//:caravan after caravan   
     
            gutter|paths
      into these quiet disagreements
between       .map-made
        and
salt-deposited.as

carrion
               filaments
rake

what              remains.


sticks loosely     atop :

                    the given .

           the drop
                                  .as
effigies of a dark forest are emboldened,
  freshly-hewn
                       into
    the membrane
     .beside the steadied tap




unhindered landslide
wet soiled
basin/
nascent tributaries //bristling
with all the
hunger and coarseness_
of something geological

        dinner is served
            taken greedily              .and
     replenished easily ,            

       returned
   to its mother:who lay now,  e m b o d i e d .
like the slow formation of            crystalline      
                                 ­                         treasuries 
 
    inside the heaving breathlessness of the
              world.

the black paint chipped perfectly from the brass eyelets around the drawstrings of a good pair of grey sweatpants-
a spectacular measure of time and the presence, there inhabited.

*******
**** on
but what ever you do, keep *******.

i
feel your heart in mine
which is    a stupid thing to say
but
an important   thing to
           mean

/


no hotter pocket dimension
this side of
inferno