Knife brandished and dusted
on dirt rubber grout grown
stuck between concrete
slabs in parking lot, stabs
the oak bark and climbing
with hand hold knots and
claw bent cramp
of forearm strain

What if the lake came to life
revealed secrets from the last
era, before manmade channels
and bridges truss and bending

On approach grip loosens
uncovered, looks echo in time
loud, unsure when muffled voices
make it past headphones
while walking through clouds
of regrettable memory

All you've got is dead
ends and some cilantro
and maybe a few basil
leaves and a book of
stamps and your feet in
the sand and the rain
beaded in your hair.

What is to be done with
foggy film and sixteenth
notes, how am I supposed
to build a bridge alone?
I can't even see the next
pier, I don't know how
you expect me to reach it.

In testing new environments
and procedures you grab
the cast iron skillet and
throw it at the wall
to see what sticks.

With sparkles and bells on
I respond with a tremor
like a California earthquake.

Soft glow and saturation
make the dullest blues into
a steady walk, predictable,
cloudy like skies in February
and November, broken strings
on the head and into the coda.

Tracing trail maps with
fingers and bootsteps that
mud imprint the floormats
of your grandfather's gray
four-door with the cracked
windshield and long
scrapes down the sides.

Keep pace with the clicks
of fingernails on wound
nylon, don't fall to expected
declarations, don't let them
beat you to the top.

She wasn't sure what she
really loved until first
flight, when it became
clear that every experience
was available, that every
agent was awake and asking.

Like a footnote on a first date
phone call and voices low
and wavering, a quip quick
and quiet, monotone, sharp.

Free foundations firm
and faltering, a game
for half a decade second to
determine if the felt fear
is fabricated or fiercely
solid, a rock in a strong stream.

Eyelid shapes appear in clouds
and up and up the plastic
primary colors, the crisp white
sheets, the springtime rain.

Cream steam in mugs with
photos of pets and birthdays
and cracks in the rim, cracks
in the handle, hanging wearing.

Calloused fingers ****** the memories
and lose track of conversation.

It's so hard to sleep
without the knocking of your
knuckles on the wall or on
my bony shoulder at 3:22am
or the tiny moans of dreams
in which you're touching my
hips or climbing fences in July.

The city lights bright in the
window mirror window distract
and while nearby sirens and
train horns sing through the
night in your presence tonight
I am noticing even distant song
and scraping of wheels on
track and locomotive groan.

I can see you curled in blue
and other devices for insulation
when I close my eyes tight in
the space where you were and
the space to which you'll return
in forever that's not far away,
in due time that feels eternal.

It's so hard to sleep
without your fingers on my
arm making circles and you
forgetting how it makes me
giggle or you remembering in
secret and smiling to yourself
as I squeal and squeeze you back.

patience, patience
jaw tight stomach purr
like lawnmower cat
like industrial brewing
like wheat paste motorcycle
like bellowing brook

adapt, adapt
bite tongue with sugar
stick to cold arches
stick to dewy lemongrass
stick to knife scissor sharp
stick to hooves and acrylic

forward, forward
ink rolled down track
onto chocolate silver boats
onto plain air flight
onto lightning scared bees
onto several unsure sets

relinquish, relinquish
dreaming fixed empty space
pushing black blanket bike
pushing solid redwood glass
pushing bowls ceramic smoke
pushing fields blue red and gray

it is hard sometimes to determine
how to proceed.

Instant chapped lip moving from
icicle breath to sweaty sigh in this
storm of memory this blizzard
of foreign hope, not sure of the
goal but **** sure of the end.

Old wood frames where you
make sure to stand when the
ground starts shaking, on the
other side of the room, knees
knocking on hard floor and
trembling fingers gripping
wet splinters, deep cuts.

There's a collective noise,
a chorus of claws and some
babbling basil-soaked bird
is hobbling across the house,
caked in ****** muddy sap.

I'm just organizing myself,
don't you pay any mind.