there’s a cold, electronic melancholia in the
crevices of lighted rooms, in the imaginations of
giants, in the suffocating, wondrous monochromes of the night
in whispered, blinding, broken, dull,
in relief maps, in cold hands running alongside climactic surfaces,
in small, imposing shadows—in model ships, dying reeds and houseplants,
pieced-together wolves, as close an imitation as can be dared, in stained glass, dusty
aves and books and windows, closed, and closed and closed and warm;
cables, flooring, displaced, obscured, scratched-out names and labels and figures and
facts: beautiful facts, useless facts, cold and impersonal, lively and running,
i remember the small smile, that slight wave of your hand as you passed by, but never quite
left me.

—formula for your endings; for these numbers to fade away, bespeaking something of infinity, i hear you laugh; beside you, i am only counting, continuing.

and we see it all, as the waves of futures hazily and uncertainty fly over and above me. we look up to the scores of crying stars, lowering...inexorable rotations, over and beyond, permutations through these emotive colours of the dark: of skepticism? of timelessness? winding slowly, downwards, there's no wild here anymore; do you still hear the lark sing?

cold and moons, eclipsed by the
shadow of that quickening starlight,
of the encroach, silently, of winter
misgivings, and missings;
lost and fallen in heaps and piles of
plated-snow: narrowing and narrowing.

you dare to reminisce at the dimming of the
night; waiting for the silent ceasing of that electric
light; smiling, for the warm fireside shingles and stones of such
delight; rising, persistent, reaching out to set the hilltops crimson and
alight.

lark, perched and persistent,
upon that willow,
and billowing, that screeching wind around you;
and willowing, those branches stretched out to guide you;
and singing, that song reaching out to hold you;
and ages dying, fading away beneath those yellowed branches—
now you wait for the advent of spring, an eternal lament
of slowed, persistent flowing, of pointed, ageless growing—
of wallowing in the hollows
and promising in the branches,
and leaving in the sunset,
and learning in the shade:
she flew away, I think, to the edges of the sea.

hands and bones
disjoint and adjoin these
prefixes, for the hills of your
monoliths align with the lighting of the
north; and over and circular you
descend and ascend, feeling the blue of the water
and the paleness of the sky—and in
night, hanging softly, shrouding, impenetrable
valleys, immutable in their perception of your
calm, longing for the adoration of
feeling.

desert and abandon these
warm and sullen affects; upon you,
a wolf, thoughtful and reproachful as you
shook your snow at the starlight, and pondered
upon the mysteries of the pattering,
puddling, flowing liveliness of granite nothings…

and the turquoise faded into one horizon, the
other expanded outward, catching the humming of
the air, and the soft intake of the flowers…the green sloped
and shuddered through the lens of the hillside, and above,
the clouds shivered as you painted their likeness in the sky.