The bespoked branch whips its tendril wrists into moonlit so winded I gave up breathing
Stripping midnight of the exhausted blue atmosphere so poetically I’ve no reason to wake up,
Having heard now everything worth believing
With nothing to let up.

The bespoke branch whips its tendril wrists into moonlit so winded I gave up breathing
It strips midnight of the exhausted blue atmosphere so poetically I’ve no reason to wake up,
Having heard everything worth believing
With nothing to let up.

I swear to Christ and Holy God
I want one more insight like a dog screaming barks in the dark at unknown intruders.
I want to jump so I have a heart because I’m afraid it will break under the moment.  
And then I know I was built
because I didn’t make it myself and so it has a purpose but I don’t know it.
Until it jumps again.

I Hate it when Night 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

He imagined her bones were hollow, quaint;
Needed for lift her
Body given to hummingbirds, A piacere soloist.
Twilight was her captor, dreams no one could persist I
Wonder why a childhood rents tenement in this-
Love, and the sleep-deprived sorryness for it

We are us all shards of glass
In death returned to sand for the beach
God does not possess Creation
(S)He was the window to Belief

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