still as cold chair,
the sound and the unsound.
the clearing
wanes.
i think of nameless streets
and pry their memories.
when a steady hand reaches
for air, it is an effort to rename things
their shabby selves. their yearnings
crumble underneath awnings of a new,
wounded moon.
the light through
the room, and the shadows it pours.
its working, a quiet punctuation
in mere sentences our own silence,
shattering at flight's first thought.
gravitations may be heavy.
the height verily not its measure.
transitions piled like old records;
trailing the monsoon on our backs,
the persistence of daylight and coffee,
plodding in heat, its vertical crawl -
this metastatic fall.
i dream of old structures. dreaming
is the product of stasis. a consequence
of movement.
dreams can only be too real. there is word
that it thrives where it is assailed.
an act of the body, conversing the limit.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 8:37 AM UTC
still as cold chair,
the sound and the unsound.
the clearing
wanes.
i think of nameless streets
and pry their memories.
when a steady hand reaches
for air, it is an effort to rename things
their shabby selves. their yearnings
crumble underneath awnings of a new,
wounded moon.
the light through
the room, and the shadows it pours.
its working, a quiet punctuation
in mere sentences our own silence,
shattering at flight's first thought.
gravitations may be heavy.
the height verily not its measure.
transitions piled like old records;
trailing the monsoon on our backs,
the persistence of daylight and coffee,
plodding in heat, its vertical crawl -
this metastatic fall.
i dream of old structures. dreaming
is the product of stasis. a consequence
of movement.
dreams can only be too real. there is word
that it thrives where it is assailed.
an act of the body, conversing the limit.
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