the streets make us strangers
cars louder than greetings
put our souls in danger
how to stop the bleeding

words not meant for me to hear
drifting fast from your lips
echoing somewhere so near
what an apocalypse

but is it the revenge
for what is lost
or is it just defence
from what's not gone?

I can feel us drifting...
how far
until I can't reach you anymore?

Whilom seafarers in rapture,
seven minutes in heaven,
then nothing but bathos,
--a woman in bed,
she and Rembrandt quarreling
over fidelity or obedience to her king?

"It is I, Seagull!"

"Everything is fine. I see the horizon..."

Night sky, a blow torch,
a golden rain flowing between her legs,
curled in the veil of imperial lineage and/or arousal,
--ballistic arc,
peering into the hand mirror,
a breach of promise staring back.

"Will the flight
affect your reproductive organs, Danaë?"

"Conceivably...
and how they shall weep
when things go wrong between us?"

Snow descends in white flurries,
somewhat hovering, drifting.
All is still, nothing hurries;
only shadows are shifting.
Night retreats,
moves on
at the break—
of dawn.

I sit here by my window
It’s slightly cracked
The wind outside sounds frigid
& the array of snowdrifts remind me of
the weather from when I was a child.
It’s crazy to think how the universe
works with my being.
I’m in a renewal stage in which
I need to tend to my inner child
& the world entices it.
I miss the calm
the silence
I need to indulge in that more
I felt childlike & awakened, tested, walking through those knee high snow drifts.
It was exhilarating in a sense.
Playing through those snow drifts
on the rez as a child, it seemed like a
treacherous wonderland.
Now those words are each of there own.

I am sand - drifting formlessly, settling briefly;
dusting edges traced clean by housekeeping’s judicious forefinger.

I am sand - black with iron and ****** wrath;
shattering glassily against a wine-stained ceiling.

I am sand - my trespasses turned to pearl;
rippled and flurrying, wedged between sandal-clad toes.

I am sand - porous with desire yet disarmed by possibility;
a fortress on the brink of invasion by the sea.

I am sand - recalled to the desert, claggy with melancholy;
a loping caravan of travail, westward bound.

I am sand - measureless and infinitely uncontainable;
sifting from hour to hour...and life to life.

The lid of a stained glass bottle,
leaves a burning sensation in my palm.
What was I hoping for?
Surely, this message will wrinkle-
my painful words silently drifting away.
And all that'd be left was my starving soul,
craving to be found someday.