in the park where squirrels peep and gibber
and the grass is brown, where the green died brownley...
there's a mark
on the world -
where we never fetched turtles
or lay languid in the shade,
but a place removed
and a day
wasted.

i see your charms as a heap of bleed.

and i forgive you all I give for ...

but i mark this place.

i brand it and sear my name
in the flesh
of our fresh regret, and stammer
in the sunshine
of our irredeemable
suns

the suns
that moons mock
and orbits abandon
to get on with the business
of sleeping through
a dream.

and you approve.

and i remain
unsleeped.

like a withered fruit
unpeached.

in the night
the trees lose their bark
and gain a smooth
dark.
they twist in the breeze
and lean moonward
in the rain
sheet.
if the rain
rains
and the moon
looms.

in the night
what crawls,
crawls deepish
and sleepless.
it dreams
wishless...
and scurries in leaf pits
and scents the air-wick
with black
eyes -
inhaling the volume
of silence
without lids
to shut
with.

just an iris
the light
shuns
a bit.

and the moonlight forages
the constant moor
of lesser marshes.

the damp cringe of the late hour
stark with stars with no power
to overcome the poetry
of the lowest things
that aspire
to cold flame
or some heaven's breath
on a dying ember
with no
name.

just before dawn
glass drum skins
crack.
and the up above
is down below
sifting through the pollen
on the plump thighs
of sleeping bees
while singing
to itself

It's Self.

or

It's Dream.

I can see
Pixels wash away
Watercolor dreams

I can see
Generations
History
Recede by technicolor tides
Into a grey scale sea

Regardless of origin
This cycle resonates too much for

Me