some free limb
loose lip
              prayer

      the figure8

(or headspin
i.suppose)

kicks up
           recycled
se(nt)(d)iments

& its such
     such a thing

to write & write

& pray you
               extract
  the heartgame

the endfelt true

everythings.
everything4you

the soft curve of chance
                              could not bite me

(though sometimes i wish it would)

but fashion a path
                   that takes me to heaven



almost skyward - you
                                      yet equally so
                                             armward

draped head in gold&sunlight with
your planetary blaze

maybe less avessel for life but more
                                           incendiary

electric,plasmic & so not crystalline
despite your form,inspiteof how you
shimmer & dance & fadein&out of it



you are the future i see when i sleep
my temple to your hip

it is my temple;

your hip

[a one-time coin
                                in the pocket of]
the verb 'to be'

i could cycle through my zoetrope
life & grab the belly fat of fortune;

his lifepink scar
                            bleedinghardtruth

i ; moonhooks

she shone like an astigmatism

i watched her arms
                              like radiance
  grab each corner of the sky
     & hang it on moonhooks

bleeding,began to melt the day
& i felt her wash
                   down my shoulders

i tasted her then
    & saw her (clearer than ever)



ii ; rockshine

she shone like an astigmatism

in a more
                 wo/rld
                            bre(ak)ing
                      ­                        way

   crystalline, the sky scattered
rockshine like lunar bredcrums
     &    4    one    point    three    
   seconds
                  i felt her on my skin

she crumbled,
                                   out of
the envelope & into
                               my palm

  dissolved into my fingers
in her own world breaking
                                         way

in there,where two magpie
sit                      cross-legged,
the air carries kismet like a
newborn                     crying
    at the very semblance
of the long      walk     away.