A tree is a cemetery of atoms
much like me
Together we bend skyward and see
Where we, ourselves, used to be

My Yorkshire terrier likes to sleep
Where these particles tend to breed
Within me they stitch a harmony
And he lays his head, devotee

Space it seems is a distillery
Where every emotion ceases to be
And God is cultivated to believe
That we are the vehicle
to everything

I Hate it when Time presses
its depthless face
against the GLASS and
I have to Fight the
urge to walk PAST the
bulbs on the stars
coming loose,
like all seas do,
and HIS hands, like they’re depicted in cathedrals:
carved from clubs,
dirt in the creases,
waving in the darkness
and wonder if I will LAST

I Hate it when Time presses its depthless face against the Glass

and I have to Fight the urge to walk Past

the bulbs on the stars coming loose, like all seas do, and HIS hands, like they’re depicted in cathedrals: carved from clubs, dirt in the creases, waving in the darkness

and wonder if I will Last

I Hate it when Time presses its depthless face against the Glass

and I have to Fight the urge to walk Past

the bulbs on the stars coming loose, like all seas do, and HIS hands, like they’re depicted in cathedrals: carved from clubs, dirt in the creases, waving in the darkness

and wonder if I will Last

My puppy lays her head on the cool kitchen floor
Much like I let mine dream of outer space
It slows the molecules until we can wrangle them
You can float atop breathing at a stellar pace
I
Hate it when Time presses its depthless face against the glass and I have to
Fight the urge to walk past the porch light to guess at the figures waving dark arms in the darkness and wonder
if I will last

“Ever look up pronunciations?”

Stripped of their fleshy chests, words are
just bones and gristle threading teeth that eat them.
Feel time, in its natural twilight, run over the words until
they are just beads at the bottom of a good sleep which  
is all childhood is anyway.
Why you had superpowers and different worlds
and falls and bee stings didn’t hurt,

not really /ˈrē(ə)lē/

We are free in God’s blue lungs to run,
to bask
But there are ribs and muscle above us
And capillaries and aoveoli at our feet and
The words of our conversations are on borrowed air and
Our Lord takes a breath and asks us to sleep
So His Dreams may Be