Can you hold it close?
Are there things around it that make it impossible?
Or is there even a chance that something, some fragile moment should
Break open, for just that second, just that breath, that blows out
For that one tiny piece of time,
When you can say,
You held it,
In close to you, so that there was
No doubt, that it felt you
Holding it, if even for a second of time.
Can you hold it closer?

In the mean of time, when walking across centuries and places, and the feeling
Of hours and minutes gone by, as if adventures were nothing, and moments in their
Pace, that of a breath, of a second turned minuscule, of life itself a fractured piece
Of history, of anyone, lasting the full depth of relevant living, can be without that first thought,
That last whim, that feeling of finality so quickly I poured upon them.

The reckless speed of traveling through, the hours and minutes crashing into one another,
Finding the way out amongst the backwalls of brick and mortar, so meaningless in
It's own right, as it too snap crumble and fall and make the life for new plants and new water
All those things that come with time and age, and life, making all things great
And all things small once again.

The enraptured beauty, that feeling of knowing, albeit subtly and on the edge of reality,
The worlds true translucent one, the knowing of the feeling of breath,
The sweet air that moves all around us, and considers our moment, our seconds, our miniscule
Bit of that little piece, that fraction of it broken down, to just that second, that you know,
You have seen real beauty, reality in its best form, real loveliness, for that first and only time.

Through this small fleeting of time, the History of The One, should be told.
There is little in the catch-a-day world that can brood up the feelings so deep,
That will make the stars and evening spirals glow dark on the sky,
And make the falling stars, fall to nothingness, and the glow of the nights sky become dark,
For in that pale face, in that golden hair, with that smile, everything is forever.

Right after my name,
There is a year there, the year of my birth, the year I have no memory of, the year that I was born,
Its there, signifying my entrance into this world
My spectacular entrance as a third child, born to a third child,
Destined to be without a destination,
That mighty bruiser who cries and whimpers, but will grow to be
No more afraid or chilled or concerted than the man
Who has little emotion, and can feel those things around him
As everyone does, but different in the way, that blue smells good
And bread blows yellow across the window,
To finding that the greatest salt earth driven thing
Is the love that one can feel, but not touch.
Tell me of this work, these years all past and past again,
Seeing those people around that aren't around anymore,
And figuring out that my life, when figured on a mathmatical basis
Is more than half way gone, no three quarters gone.
All this ****** work, and knowledge and love and hate,
And covering it up to be something, I know I am not,
All but the dash.  Look, it is there, on this page of poetry,
On these words that so simply tell me or tell you what is,
And there is that despicable dash, that will show two centuries,
Two hundred years to choose from, this dash shall be in collection
Of those years.
Leave it blank.

The warmth of the morning, with just its cold chill,
Can send the essence of the dark night, whistling
In the background, and making its waves, and tearing up its minds
Off speeding into the darkness it leaves behind in all its cold terror,
Letting the wicked and the injured inside, collapse and follow it,
As the days foreshadow beings to set in, touching the walls around us
Its grace and registration of a new day settling in, in unencumbered
Gripping making the new time, this new time, a complete release.
See the shadows of the darkness as they move so quickly, yet slowly through,
Hear the stillness as it begins to warm, and the floor begins to make
Popping noises, as the water heats and steams and comforts the room,
It can be felt, it can be touched, it can be the presence of the daytime
Floating over, bringing sunshine, bringing joy, and near fulfillment,
As the darkness of the night, recedes, for now, into the holes it is kept in,
Until the sun begins its flow, to the darkness.  Pray only for the moon.

Wash the Monday from my back, and leave me there to soak
In that rapturous bath of Fridays preparation, and Saturdays wonderment.
Your hands and heart can wash away that filthy guile, brought about so
Seemingly easily, by days turned with bent figures, walking upright in
Their presence, so crouched in their intent, so much the feeling of them is almost welcome,
With the smiles and fraught gestures of humility and sunshine, pours through
And graces their face, with light, that can be seen as glowing and righteous,
Only to be revealed in their common ugliness, in their dark way, in themselves.
Wash the dark winds and fretful traces, of that which makes me unclean, and
Feel the utmost traces of your blue sky against my back.
All the things that make me what I am, lost among the senses of those that try
To tear me down, clean your way, and make it built within me.
There is no one, no hand that can wash, no person that can say, or do, or hold
Anything of any matter, more than your hand, your arm, your shoulder,
That essence of you, can keep us together, and wash, wash the Monday,
From my back, and  leave me here to soak.

He felt the chest move up and down,
Like a clock, it’s moving was certain, one, then two
Then three beats, then five hundred, five hundred and twenty,
He could feel the pressure of breath, moving so gently out, so gently in,
And he could watch the soft slumber as it rested
Upon the face, the eyes moving gently beneath that
Fragile skin placed there, that made the eyelids,
A beautiful song; a soliloquy maybe, coming up from that
Glass-like face, lost in its own respite, lost in its mysterious feelings
Of day and night and all the time between wrapped into one.
He knew, that somewhere there, deep inside, maybe today
Maybe not today, maybe in the will of the sanctum,
He too was there, as she slept soundly, folded against his body,
She lies there, so soft, so gentle, lost in her own device.
He could feel every inch of her body, and never move his hands,
The warmth of her, the essence of her, pouring over him, consuming
Him in a soft, luxurious liquid, the essence of sleep.

Carry me into the soft light of evening, let it fall on me
And make my eyes shine, and look on you, as those whose thoughts
Have meant so much to both of us, and the gaze seeing you,
As you smile your quick smile, and make your face, reflect the field
On which I, have been the one who wins, the one
Who almost loses; until I see your eyes, and the permutation that is you.

Carry me close to almost darkness, as the feeling of you takes hold, and
Sings its quiet song of romance, and feeling for myself, of everything
In me, that belongs to you, which in itself is everything that I am made of,
For you, the ceaseless-being who’s catching smile and feeling touch,
Pull us together; seeming to find the line of communication without speaking,
The pull of music played without sound, the completeness, of holding one forever.

Carry me into the black, the color that expels all color, by making it fade away.
Take me into your totality, to the expansive room where wind and air, and thoughts
And dreams, all come together, like cymbals crashing in silence, like warmth
Falling into coolness and the destiny finds itself as much a part of the beginning
As it finds itself in the peak of being one together, and finding the world a vapor around
That feeling, of being the one carried, softly by you, into the night.