daylight diminishes with each passing day, golden sunlight bathes the early evenings with a subtle scent of warmth.  I trust that you are well.

snow begins to fall; it collects over the garden like antique film.  memories reorganize like the seasons.  i watch the garden through a gap in white curtains and become buried in the hibernation of ferns.  my mind can be sleeping and seeing.  withering velvet, muffled songs underground.  december light reclaims resonant summer heat, it echoes in blank pastel sky like a church bell.  

of all the many things in the little garden, i regard the ferns the most.  planted in my youth, we watch each other grow.  like an old friend, i talk to the darling ferns in my head about your memory.

coiled in fractal spirals, scenes gradually unfurl across the garden expanse in antediluvian ecologic masterpieces.  whispering buds relax their clenched fists in sunken earth and seek to taste light.  they capitulate when exposed to touch, bowing in my thoughts.

your green eyes captivate me; leaves that glow from within.  the colors stretch and soak in the sun, clairvoyant crystal gaze.  i see him in them, prophetic underclothing.  the garden expands and hooks to the fabric of the curtains, flickering from winter to spring.  

i have not seen another person in months.  i am not in the garden, the garden is me.  him.  leaves swell with my breath, growing and shrinking like the stars.

White paint finish
On Georgian stucco
Over red-brick.

Bomb falls at night

Dawn breaks
Tiny flecks Twinkle

Like stars

nobody tells me what to do with longing
unquantifiable as only the sand is
exulted light dives in my hair
my shoulders are amazed like a cactus flower
your blood self-absorbed rehearses abysmal cascades
tigers are still asleep in your dreams
will you chase the moon on my surface, will you, tell me,
leave your silence on a chair
what if love is this cypher for the mystery of time
what if the pulse is a form of photosynthesis
we have to stay away from any fire since
we would exhaust its thirst
a step into a surreal second that augments me
second after second  the one who loves
disturbes time in its mazing grace
the sky this gestational field
the space between each word a cosmos
a white truth will repeat itself
again and again bearing witness to
life hand in hand with death

Absence palpable as
An avocado stone-

Flesh delicious but
Roots are filling a
Far-off Jar-

White filaments lighting
Clear cool water

I stand in the hollow of night,
where silence drapes like a second skin—
thick, unmoving, a wound
stitched shut with my own hands.

The Keeper kneels beside me,
palms open, as if gathering dust.
Her ribs are a locked door, where
she keeps pain from harming others—
her voice an echo she swallowed.
Pain nests in the crook of her collarbone,
tucked away where no one can reach,
where even the wind forgets to look.

The Bleeder is near too—
a storm dragging its nails across the dark.
He spits out rage in poison-dipped syllables—
the night flinches beneath his breath.
He is all jagged, all reckless, all out—
the kind of flame that does not warm,
only burns, only consumes.

The Keeper whispers,
words soft as a bouquet of flowers—
a quiet ache—a heavy toll for just one.
The Bleeder snarls, that’s all he knows,
shaking his fists at the sky,
as if anger alone can unmake the past.

I am between them—
one foot in silence, ready to cover
one foot in fire, ready to lunge.
I feel them both inside me—
the silence that suffocates,
the fury that devours.

And I wonder—
which one will I become,
when the night finally calls my name.

This language

Already archaic

Sits ageing on

The page-

A youth-like this
Once was-

Stares vacant
Into space