Nights render like drawings
When we only have the charcoal chalk and
Make do with Memory...
Except for the sky, where Gods thoughts
are exploding.
I pretend my skins were sails, or
Time’s leftover stitching meant for heartstrings 
But for the bones,
Alabaster dice, stenotypewriter keys machining the
bottom taps of ribs dug up a thousand years on
And thought to carry wings

The first chore of consciousness is to
remember that it is darkness,
and that some of that darkness is bone.  
Its these molecules that grew tired from all the fuss of Gravity
and slowed,
and built a circular cathrdral and
from it cast long outreaches ******* more
but its not enough so there is skin, sailed between
and catching breath for the movement dreamed.

The music never catches rhythm
Scaffolded Sky never takes hold
The words begin to leak stars between them
The music is only gravity, and nearly as old

Whistle-ical light,
If sunlight were like gaslight
Then the universe would drive
Past my window, the crunch of snow
Under night.

Whistle-ical light,
If sunlight were like gaslight
Then the universe would drive
Past my window, the crunch of snow
Under tires

That way she taps you and grasps, says
"the universe is moving me too fast
And I need to hold on"
Every half second God rebirthing (imagination)3
(imagining)3 the (imagination)3 of imagination’s (imagining)3.
There’s something about standing before the sea
and a picture of a solar system,
Something about the bare heart of youth
daring Gravity for the poetry

Oh, Christ
Am I death?
Everyone has always looked at me so
Eerily
Perhaps my mother split me with Time
I am Gravity’s cantileve.  
An imaginary house I revisit in
Capillaries crackling with dreams