how am
i feeling?
i'm feeling
everything.
slowly and
quietly at
first, then
all at once.
loudly.
breathlessly.
falling from
the sky;
drumming
on my roof.

a
quiet
ocean;
soft
beguine.
love,
it means
what you
want it
to mean.

the sunlight
shines
through
the spaces
between
the curtains.
sounds of
construction
and lawn
mowers
whirl,
quietly,
in the
autumn
air and
become
a nocturne
on your
wooden
piano.
softly
in our
little home,
when it's
half a day
half a night,
we sit
on the
floor
between
humans
and
imaginary
things
moving
like dust
around us
and have
afternoon
tea.

what happens when
you take a
photograph
of yourself —
you take a
photograph
of yourself.
you choose
where your
arms go,
what your
mouth does,
where your
humanness
resides.
you take a
photograph
of yourself
and the
world goes on.
limbs of trees
slightly bend
with the wind.
a black cardigan
lays still in a
pile of clothes.
butter,
effortlessly,
melts into
a sauce.
when you
take a
photograph
of yourself,
a photograph
becomes. lives.
then dies.
the world goes on.

a porch
on a
seashore;
a small
room with
a big window.
i love
you in
this shirt.
i love
you here
in the
chaos
of my
arms
and your
arms. my
legs and
your legs.
outside
the choir
is getting
loud and
quiet.
and i
have
cried
for all
the times
i couldn't
hold you
and bring
you from
the cold
to this
warm
home.
i have
made
us tea.
i love
you in
the first
moments
of morning
light and
soft sleep.
the
choir is
playing a
familiar
song, and
you can
have this
for ever.
the ocean
is yellow
with
sunflowers;
the stories
are turning
the skies
pink.
i love
how you
remember
things.
your
shirt
smells
lovely.
you're
looking
at me.
air.
breath.
sounds.
the choir
is just
for you.
i love
you all
the time.

sweet sombre
this morning
will bring things.
quiet movements
of the universe
mysteriously
spinning around
your significantly
insignificant life
will take care
of you, in silence.

the coral world
of mars will
continue to
float away
in a sea of
questions.
softly
carrying
water and
breath in
its heavy air;
leaving traces
of eyes
and rivers
lost in time.
they say
there was
home here
billions of
years ago.

billions and
billions and
billions of years.
before this.
before me.
before you.

yet,
here
is this
morning.
a cup
of tea.
this day will
bring things.
movements
of a quiet
universe. a
coral world;
a lonely
home,
somewhere.

a spoon
gently drags
across the
bottom of
a bowl. the
lovers laugh.
the servers
are leaning
against the
walls and
glass windows;
the water in
the aquarium
glistening
in sunlight.
afternoons
at the diner
are peculiar
and quiet.
visibly warm
— the air
outside.
inside —
condensation
on the table,
through
the cloth.
interesting
things don't
happen here;
just this
over again.
a man leans
back in his
chair and
scribbles
in his
notebook.
a waitress
twiddles
her thumbs.
i ask for
another cup
of coffee.