night falls.   space slackens.
falling into common placeness, the realness
     of quotidian moon.

    .

 a love for the metastasis of minutiae.
  a hand on the cold **** pale like the dead.
  the tombs of fingernails. creases for
   delineations of Earth. clenched, evening.
      unloosened, bare as morning.
    hand in hand, twilight.

    .

  outside the house, a figure.
  things stir in the persistence of silence.
  the flagrant irony of hearing cacophonies.
     a part of the world that becomes a kin.
   say, without light and the dimensions of
     things, no shadows display in grayscale.
 listening to the cancer of the avenue:
   the continuing  tachycardia in the edge
      of things. things that pulse or flatten.
     the mind, in your passing. the heart in your passing.  respect this chronology.

     likened to the metaphor of beginning
  an immediate and forever turning of the body when trouble meant togetherness,
   and  consolation, simply remembering.

  .

there is a deconstruction in sleep.
   the alterable garment of dream. or a flower
  revealing its inflorescence.
  the blackred hemograph of petals, the accuracy of thorns, the tabulated geography
    of its stillness - something it that does not completely practice.  the constancy of the wind    breaks its mimesis.

   .

outside your house again. the undesirable quake in the monotony of your dog, Oliver, chained to the stilt of the house that does
     move anymore.

  the absolute quiet of the street foreshadows the variegated Dieffenbachia.
   the color of my palm, starting to green.

   i could be anything within your presence
     as the moon intensifies the plunge.