~
man on the moon,
woman in orbit,
unrequited science.
nowhere to land,
nothing to feel,
it might as well be Siberia.
luminaries change,
control lingers in the framework.

the heavens revolve
—deasil and artificial.
she has revolutions of her own,
legs that once swam
everyday in his backyard pool,
(that once draped around his coil)
now openly kick free
from his lunar confines.

he starts the countdown
—one one thousand,
two one thousand,
but she's not coming for him.
she's chasing other transmissions,
the bones of what she believes,
hoping something out there
can activate her heart.
~

Hereupon the roof of this house,
The chill of a breeze brushing to cruise my skin,
I can see the canvas changing,
From the dark speckled indigo
To indigent ice blue.

Pastel painting ‘cross the expanse
Blues, oranges, with pink undertones,
And here I am dropping tears like dew drops,
Hoping that when the day comes
I can put the pain down.

Orange fireball in the sky
Peaking over the horizon
Please cleanse the pain away
Wash me in your yellow glow,
I wanna be less blue than the robin’s egg overhead
I wanna feel less sick than the lush verdant grass beneath my feet.

Vibrating through my veins
My flesh feels blanketed,
I can coo into this happiness
As the colors bleed into a scene
Of what today may bring
I’m here like an early perennial
I’ll bloom like an early spring.

Just chase away the indigo,
Don’t want to be allured by the diamonds’ glow
Need to find a way to stay within the light,
Bask til I’m golden brown,
No more sorrows and no more frowns
I’m ready for a day break.

There’s a calmness here,
A kind of silence that echoes through the body like a calm vibration
That addictive resounding void of sound
Quiet is the mind fretting nothing
And home is the place in which silence is peace.

Here where the man-made moat
Blissfully accepts the prattling flap of gosling wings
And graceful glides of mallards.
There is a pause, a surrender
Where life’s woes tow away in one broad shake of a shoulder.

I walk on the asphalt path,
Careful not to overstep and disturb their homes,
Admiring their decoration and their lamentation,
Finding comfort in knowing
The ancestors reach through their pine doors
To grant me knowledge of yesteryears.

There’s a tranquil sedative kind of peace here,
Like one could slip into the next life
With an innocent yawn and heavy hooded blink under the dead oak.
I’ve never known a better place to hang my head.