White sheets
on a plain bed
two pillows and a spread.
The simplest image
yet the strongest longing

Frustration in the wells of
the disturbed duvet
hills of loneliness
uncomfortably lingering
in the spring mattress.
Fresh daisies and cotton
mixing with sweat and tears
the scent of a young lover
left alone to roam those roads
all on her own

Missing. Lost in translation
from life to art to life again
fell from the edge of the frame
and onto the carpet
It's been months. She's been collecting dust
little by little and peace by piece
her mind wandering as she lets go at last
her breath the flutter of a newborn butterfly

She took a step back. She broke, again and again
hidden away, shattered and reborn
a kaleidoscope of fragments and memories
bursting out into the world
each side of her a different story
each one beautiful and whole again

She wants to share her story
as they talk about their day
rejoice in the touch of his fingertips
and the softness of her skin
cherish the sincerity of his laugh
as they pull each other close
appreciate the warmth of his breath
and the clarity in his eyes
being the first thing he sees
waking up from the sweetest dream
and knowing that regardless
she is the reason for his smile

But not yet.
Her hands smooth down the bedding.
One less mountain to climb, she thinks
slipping into the plain bed
and under the white sheets.
Only one more sleep, only a few more days
a couple more dreams and symphonies
and one more poetic line
to wish her rampant thoughts goodnight.

Summer rain, melting Arctics
and the lipids lining the nerves
in your brain. These are the metrics
of our times. Mere resolve

is not enough to take care
along the highway—you need wheels and prayer.
When you realize there’s no there there
that’s a scary day. End there.

August, the extinction is terrifying.
Quiet, too quiet. 100% humidity, not a single insect flying.
Summer morning, summer evening, sighing
the sighs of purgatory—grief without pain, death without dying.

I’ve chosen the safety of these mountains
and the beauty of their mists—such perfection
which anyone can have for the asking.
All you need to know is the names of things.

Conflict, coercion, war, strife.
Flying high in April, shot down over Germany.
Have a good day. That’s life. Fix yr brakes.
When I hit a pothole my fillings sing.

Anything’s possible, it’s impossible
to know what will happen until it’s happened.
You can’t know what you’re doing until it’s done
and even then you stare in wonder

unmoved yet moved by the stillness
a pure goodness, bone stillness, potential energy. You can practice it
in the city or the desert.
The wilderness or the mirror over your dresser.

I.

Have you seen faded flowers in the night?
Where an unknown heart got burnt at moonlight.

Would they wrap pale sunlight?
Allowing petals to sneak into a treasure box.
 
She lay in her chamber in the sea mountain side..
Fire flame burns the window green...
Wooden floor danced on crystal glasses..
 
The wind rushes out of the cloud by night,
Stabbing and poking her, Madam Huang
 
II.
Of those who were wiser than us---
Of many far talents than us---
 
Pray, neither for the angels in Heaven above
Nor the devil down under the tunnel
 
For the moon sunk in late November
Without interpreting her wonders, she left the sea bank,
Tears can ever dissolve her stories within the stories
 
III.
Of the sorrowful Madam Huang
When the stars have not risen,
They gather in the chamber by the sea.
 
A falling star shining in the far and burst,
a bolide flames transmitted Requiem finale.
 
Of the sorrowful Madam Huang
May the sky award true colours of the dying night.

IV.
Silent prayers are kneeling there, they seemed to share the shame
Prior to breathing out the crispy air of Late November.
She asked him once Her name.

Of the sorrowful Madam Huang
from the chamber in the sea mountain.

i ask you:

as you stood before the mountain peaks
do you remember its name
do you remember the bite of the frost
on the fingers you dont have anymore?
do you remember the cold and how it clouded
the vision youve gone so long without?

"when submerged in darkness,"
you say
"one grasps at the light-
no matter how deeply it stings,
for it is something, anything-
in a world of nothing, nothing,
nothing"

your silhouette falters, you shake until your shape is unrecognizable

though i test your limits with the pain of postcards, like scalpels in your side

i must admit: i am sorry.