shattered green on the gym floor, shells from the ocean pulled by the tides. staircases spiral down and down and until they wait for you. small windows open and close and an ocean flashes with black and white credits, zooming in and out and wrapped up in colorful patchwork quilts. air conditioning hums and churns bits of dust in the vents, pine needles shift in the reflection of sandblasted windows. the ocean is near now. I can smell the salt, the brine in the passageway of my lungs. the ghost of the ocean is my hands, the swaying trees, the circadian boxes of leaves. transparencies through water blend color memory, the recall of fossilized love. ancient creatures roam the depths of the hallway, far underneath the strata of the canyon we call home. they float and glow and survey the depths of rock, water, sand, and seams of light to resurface on a sunny day in the riverbed. carved by water, we enter light. and stretch the calcified seams from which we were woven.

escape - Midnight grapefruit - hung like a light -

- caves of body - I think - shadows nearing - my dream was watching a war happen -

- Leaves of paper - tenderness of rain - beautifully redundant -

- In openness - safe - mirror moon - precious loft beds and tapestries -

- exploding light fractals of energy - looked at stars- nostalgic peace

- blue cold - under waves of color - whole cities fell -

- Intoxication of creative - fragile mistakes shape reality - so far, -

eight and a third of a minute is all it takes: light is memory.  it is awake. it greens the forest. remembers energy.

     hysteric tenderness, hostile touch.

dilated eyes, bronzed flesh, i am painted in all colors unseen.  
     solar heat dilutes 8 and a third of a minute of memory.

eyes closed, i sit beside you with my bare sun-warmed legs crossed on a picnic blanket.  

     fruit shrivels under cloudless light.  

your silhouette burns red behind my eyelids: my image returns 8 and a third of a minute later to a dark room.  

     the iridescent path led to you.

breakfast oranges
breakfast at golden hour
breakfast at 5:30 pm
in bed **** with legs
stretched in sunlight
feeling the shadows of curtains
breakfast oranges and sunlight for dinner

february waits
thinking of me
when they are normal again
and the doors will be off
off off off
and the sun will be on
sun sun sun
and the sun will be gold
in the soul
and my oranges
rest on the bed
in the sun

Underglazed silent hours, color gently stitch glow
On blue spinning wheels, mauve clouds pull like a sheet
Tumbling brushstroke breathing, pointing pastel beads sky and garden:
Seeing without seeing, life emerges
an empty third floor apartment with a cat, a girl, and plants
most occupancy – her hands that tell stories
turn the white canvas like autumn; the page of a book

double exposed –
when the apple, pear, and azaleas bloomed
the shutter speed raced like a heartbreak
and we walked in the hills next to home,
the gold stretching after winter’s shadow
daffodil laughter, a time when you were where I am now –
and light twisted through sisterhood’s soul,
a perfume motherhood in turn.
We walked through the rubble of the school, the giant mound of rocks and twisted metal.
On the bridge of a fallen tree – through the scaffolding of an old parking lot.
Magnolia flowers pierced with a pocketknife.
Pittsburgh spring, lilacs and ferns. Memories overlaid like negatives in water.

Self consciousness1, flowers buried under the dirt of the garden.  Stream through the house, a lover’s whisper5.  April mothers, remember medications.  Sleeping curls, sunlight vignettes8.  Every word, every note.


  1Handbook of I Love You, Third Edition

  5Community Studies on Letter Writing

  8Concise Guides to Roses, Polaroids, and London Fogs