every-body was a blurred dot in the threshing ocean
as i washed away; every wavelet playing sunder.
once,
concrete was the sea and i
failed to differentiate, blind,
for the light between slender limbs. disguises,
trees called lovers. silt turned pavement.

we mill about for bits. hearts turn to sand.
        by impact, to glass. one note sung, to shards.
                 the impossibilities of preservation:

anything that is real is fleeting. on crumbling precipice, daydreams spelled out on soft wish were then real, but now, like Siberian radio, waver through our bodies with little effect, and tail off, as time slips on.

but what hurt over concrete is a pale scar,
slurred over weeks, months,
towers spread news, but
-i'm not really listening.-

and footnotes tell tale of time & try & effervescent sentiments;
where we'd play seemingly meaningful games.
where we'd skin knees.
where we'd lie under seemingly meaningless stars, as foliage;
to freeze & bind,
some slower dance through
the corridors of our darkened days.
trembling hands, held at distance.

    where water cuts a warm hole between sky & feet,
     i set out on a separate path. at the root of
    this tower, sitting and staring pure up, failing to
   see the forest for one leaf, i tied strings to
    my fingertips, and just watched autumn come on quick.

but, slowing of pace makes little match for the wind. lives wind like snakes under the soil, but disentangle just as quick. primes become primitives, this much is certain; but, still clueless to the fact, i shy away from ideals & search once more for concrete, or truth,

or at least evidence.

(i couldn't say more than enough, or
much at all. i am uncertain but
only ever-so-slightly and, overarching
paradigm, i'm happier than ever, even
if i'm still sad.) we play
party to endless routines. bite our
own tails with startling frequency.
shudder or spark. most often both,
but most often meaning little, for
meaning is intrinsic, only where you
implant it. in patient hunt for
our exterior products, we numbered
blades, outside; hovering above and
without fields. writing the same
light motifs as always. nothing looks
like stars except stars, or sand, or
freckles in your eyes. everything
shines a little dimmer. something
about the way our hands brush
through stems. directed motions.
observable quantities. sentences
underpinning lifetimes. how does
one figure their actions or inaction
as anything but universal? how
does one decompose their patterns,
already found irreducible? from
either side, movements are local.
we reside in pure neighbourhoods.
all existence outside is asleep.
the hallways contract. water runs
from & over our skin.
                                       shivered

and, as basis,
                        discovered this
world is just as dizzy. just in
new increments. not eating for days
sends you sick. eating for days
does likewise. broken down or
breaking down, we idle and
sleep and sometimes hope for
coalescence (or, at least, as far
as i can find). but, meadows, too,
still sleep, forests still sleep. all
alive is this room, or shadow,
or minute discharge radius. so, if
you aren't here or closer, how can
anything matter? asleep & passing
through city-light. tender ghost.
sweet summary. some days, even
i am discontinuous, but only for
passing swathes. field underfoot
& distance now mean little more
than nothing, and little less than
everything. and, as dual, i
could hardly forget. scale &
continue in each second. it is
cold & getting colder, and i've
figured out how to miss you,
                          already.