I wake to remember
my sunroof is open.
I wake to leave words on the path.

I wake like a gardener
illiterate in Nature,
who nonetheless prays for the math.

The Solemn shows Wicked
the chess pieces burning.
a light that gives fuel is its task.

I wake just to tell you
my sunroof is open.
My words, as the rain's, not to last.

a thoughted beast,
neither poet, nor man,

let his words construct themselves.

without a care to show
on sheet or screen, (let them),

no need to be, or grow.

with arms to forget
under closing eyes,

with a prize of
only silence,

like the shushing grass,
unaware

of even its green.

Its name is bee.
Its name is fly.
It lands near me,
To catch my eye.

On coffee lid,
On wiper blade,
In barefoot Sun,
Or shoe in shade.

A wrinkling skin,
A finger still,
Remembered breath,
An open will.

It cleans its wing
With steady cause.
I'll take no life
That gives such pause.

It was on our lips.
(And) the downturn was everything.
'why wouldn't you think rocks could be green?'

You turned from the ships like a foam-latent cold.
The snaps-onlooked couldn't believe.

'stop wading, my love,
we're not here to understand'

We're here to look.
We're here to love,

and then leave.

I want to be
the bee that I see
on the small purple flower.

So many eyes, until
there are no others.

  a breath and a buzz and a dip.

Nothing left,
but little lessons for
drawing Love's gauge.

stepping light,
cleaning wings,

    moments and more


                                and more.

I thought you were gone,
but what was there
to begin with?

There were no mirrors, or windows,
only the air that rests
between leaves,

no wind,

save what we made ourselves.

A few roots though,
for a token's sake, and
an illusion's speech.

Entwined like those
two wolves of lore.

Little pities-
we burned minutiae,
and made nothing of the forest.