Son of man,
you have eaten
too many seeds
and your hands are
crimson. Honeybush
cannot soak the salt
from your skin.

When I saw you lying
on the concrete,
I did not know
I had broken
you; shredded
talons, velvet
roots.

When he speaks of moths,
I know what he is thinking,
how in death they turn
to dust.

With you I am a burning
tree. I give you cherries
in the hope that I will stain
your fingers.

Your eyes have felt acid
rain. Your transparent
gazes soak my branches,
but my roots remain

parched. They fear the folds
of your skin, the power
of your steps
towards me.

What do I consist of without
you? What do I consist
of, when without you I turn
to dust.

you do not know
that the moon is yours*

if you have not yet realized
that the sun rises
with your breath and sets
with your calm,
let me wake you
before dew settles
on your tongue.

shadows paint your portrait
in the night. you watch the sky
with a furrowed brow.

if you do not know
that worlds rest in your hum,
let me go with you on your next
journey, and point to you
your powers.

when earth stains my knees
it tells me of your childhood.
let me take you to your past
in curling wood.

let me show you,
if you have not realized
I am the moon.

Your name was sung in the seagull's wings
that day.
But we did not hear it.
Instead she told me to stop looking
over the edge
for spots that could have held a body
in its last moments;
railings that might have felt the warm grip
of hesitation,
and the last release to flight.

We let ourselves forget, allowed
our eyes to jump with the dolphins below.
And we even forgot about your possibility
for a moment --
or perhaps just did not hear your last
glance to the sky.

Your silent jump convulsed our bodies,
but we did not feel it.
We did not feel
the gates clash with too much sorrow so that
some gold chipped off and lightly dusted
your convoluted shape
which winked up at us
and whispered of forgotten moments --
but they were carried away by the wind
and we did not hear it.

From our gated zenith above
your hole in the rocks,
all we could do was stare
and try and scream your name
but we did not know it.

in the single beam of light through the broken blind
dust drops and climbs on the breath of the sleeping,
resting on eyelashes covering rapidly dancing pupils
which see only you,
dripping in that early morning ray.

and still, in sleep,
the ache.

to love you,
oh,
to love you.

Your ****** terrain framed by grizzly
gristle
and the batting stalks that give glimpses
of the bright bear cubs held within

hide the warm sunken caves
in your cheeks.

But the soft woven cover that so
delicately protects you still whispers
"come."

"come hibernate in my jawline."

I give you every word I know,
and yet I still have none.