i remember (a pluchritudinal memory) when almost so effortlessly our lives lied to us most indefinitely in the hours that return with lashes and chains—
as in clothes heavy soldered to washlines, the waft in the air is as familiar as the rain cooling the blades of grass you speak of, something the dark only conjures waiting at the brink of my unclosed retina. i know all of these well-placed memories like furniture you have arranged under the hollow hands of the home. yet barely even so, a fond memory of— the daedalus outside or the cut gladiolus, plucked out of the moseying hour's vicious wingtip.
we do not always die like this. when all our dying whispers are thrusted underneath mouths of stone, when all of our wishes hold a flame paler than a vague rekindling of the dead.
sometimes promised something an ellipsis would half-ponder and postpone in word's mid-birth.
the raging moon had waned. all the windows shunned — hermetic, air outside potent, leaving all books half-read yet fully opened. the children hide behind thin shades of roses, i can hear the steely grit of the flesh pared from the bone as my mother guillotines with kitchenware
we do not always die instantaneously. most of our ways to go leave demarcations on soul — something so easily displaced, doubled array of its arrival into half-wakefulness.
something only a last prayer thumbed down to the last bead and we cannot cry anymore.
night's flumine seeks to rebuild the wound undone delicately leaving my breath and betraying my body.