every-body was a blurred dot in the threshing ocean
as i washed away; every wavelet playing sunder.
once,
concrete was the sea and i
failed to differentiate, blind,
for the light between slender limbs. disguises,
trees called lovers. silt turned pavement.

we mill about for bits. hearts turn to sand.
        by impact, to glass. one note sung, to shards.
                 the impossibilities of preservation:

anything that is real is fleeting. on crumbling precipice, daydreams spelled out on soft wish were then real, but now, like Siberian radio, waver through our bodies with little effect, and tail off, as time slips on.

but what hurt over concrete is a pale scar,
slurred over weeks, months,
towers spread news, but
-i'm not really listening.-

and footnotes tell tale of time & try & effervescent sentiments;
where we'd play seemingly meaningful games.
where we'd skin knees.
where we'd lie under seemingly meaningless stars, as foliage;
to freeze & bind,
some slower dance through
the corridors of our darkened days.
trembling hands, held at distance.

    where water cuts a warm hole between sky & feet,
     i set out on a separate path. at the root of
    this tower, sitting and staring pure up, failing to
   see the forest for one leaf, i tied strings to
    my fingertips, and just watched autumn come on quick.

but, slowing of pace makes little match for the wind. lives wind like snakes under the soil, but disentangle just as quick. primes become primitives, this much is certain; but, still clueless to the fact, i shy away from ideals & search once more for concrete, or truth,

or at least evidence.