there are worlds underneath words
swathed inward, swirling from
rondure of moon.

of all that i have loved,
you are the only one living

here within the lining of my skin,
or thinning dermis of turpentined walls,
same as the ponds have their
   curved silences, i have nothing -
a river bled of its source, living in wet verses.

what the turning of days might
bequeath you, as cunning as the mayday
of evening with its susurrus, is what
brims over diminutively, a glint of star.

i believe in the empire your love
spurned from all that is ruined,
drained of their excess. how i have loved
to trail you, across the crisscrossed roads
and receive such fullness no purer than mine:

all your sweetness that is for me,
the implacable honeysuckle and the dew
of mild beginning, i believe them
   all
breaking loose around me, perduring
   still, lorn and born only of visions
all yellow and filling up trees so as the assault
   of light spreading maps through the  sky,
      looking for its home.

Mountains cloaked in misty fog,
Far too invested in holding up the sky,
To crumble.

Light burns the frigid frost,
As the pale moon begins to fade.
Lonely is the moss that witnesses,
These vaulted measures of pain
Through suffering.

How many pebbles,
Make a mountain strong?
Or do the people ever realize,
Their propensity?

Failure is a game,
Each person will play
And despair is the summer grass
In which we lay.

For there is no retracting,
The violent light,
As hope burns screaming
Through a lonely night.