As chasms open up to swallow
I’ll eye them carefully
to see if I should cling or dive

The thing about chasms is
that there might be something amazing
at the bottom, that reinvents you

Or there could be spikes and crocodiles,
or spiky crocodiles
with knives

You just never know with chasms

We will go over that hill right there,
the one yearning for the sky like the earth took a breath and held it for a million years.
Then down in the valley, just to the left,
we will find a little path,
a dry artery through the lonely trees,
and soon we will burst forth into a little meadow, a perfect circle.
If we squint a little we can see the ghosts
of pagans cavorting around an angry fire and
perhaps we will wish to be wild, free, and dangerous too.
We can sit, if you'd like,
or we can measure the meadow's circumference with careful steps,
we can find the very center and stand terribly close,
or we can each choose a side and negotiate a truce.
Perhaps I will take your hand.
Perhaps we will share a kiss.
Mostly we will stare in silence because of the unyielding distance between us
even perfect meadows cannot fill.

Chasms spread easily.

It only takes a second,
A blink,
And the earth yawns up before whoever had made it.

Perhaps they look at their chasms with regret,
Their voices sorrowful and muffled.

Or they are prideful,
Thinking they have done a great deed,
But when really they are shattering themselves.

Sometimes chasms form quietly.

They spread like crackling poison,
Starting small and growing.

Sometimes I fear,
There are chasms within us all,
And we will never be able to cross them.

I’d imagined her in the fields of
Tea; one, “she,” with hair born ink,
Perfectly-lined pearls,
A soon to be smile,
Wells for eyes, lost,
So very starved to be saved
And a'tic-tac-toe
Scarred the earth upon back,
So mimicked the sun.
So clucked the tribulation.

We, and after, “we,”
******. We trust
And two necks rocked backward
Under an unrelenting moon,
Could become, “we,”
With an already, “she,” and now the

“He,” a'wander before stars -
A wish and the only she’d wanted,
By name of, “touch;”
So one, the sun scorched rice,
And second, red stained the field,
And so on, the son missed home,
And once more, one son stood ground
And another sun held his hand,
So built, this newer home
Come allowed and growing old;

Together.

life isnt so grey in technicolor
i murmur into the pillows
yelling solitary in my room

cant remember past nor future
all blurs into great stillborn lie
little chasms of death where
once were brain cells
olneys lesions