return in pieces,
return to He
violet grasses envelop me
breathing
waiting
leeching
breaking
prism-fractal
forest floor
seeded ancient,
resisting blight
shadows cast infinite light...
...a medium dampened by the night
hold my hand as i
regress
violent, devoid lack sense, selfless i,
you dig relentless
grasses sense the scent of
blood
glasses within parcels, platters
broken glass, shattered and scattered
you are glimmering, ghastly, strange,
all you are is selfish, vain
glass grows underneath my skin
underneath my skin is pain

often did i call for help,
never did it make a change
never did the music stutter
never did i share my pain
mader, madre, magdalene
you scour and scorn a thorn’d gaze
you hurt and make joyous exclaim,
then grimly cast infinite rain.

the sun's warmth passes overhead
i long to lie on glass plateaus
dry crack'd soil when sinking teeth
crumbles easily
like rotting flesh

all that was is overshadowed
a looming sick juxtaposition
i hear the chimes and flutes afar
when wind rattles through a field of bones

sooty grey, crème fraîche,
are veins of thistle without color
skulls and talons burning hot,
gleaming bright in desert-day

stripped by sand and beetle bites
fall’n remains and dusty cans
eons pass in tens and thousands,
all plunges into trench-ed depths...

a sacred golden tomb emerges
in the midst of a red monsoon
magma from below the surface
billows in a thousand plumes

this land is hell from what i see
the valleys are deadly and unforgiving
i'm swallowed up by rising tides,
all washes away before the dawn.

warm is the fire that burns under stovetops
warmer is your knitted alpaca coat
you made us a dinner
yams,
veal,
whiskey and cornbread...
let me assist you,
enjoying your labor

honey, you are deserving of ev-er-y welcome
ev-er-y welcome deserving and true
if we could keep this warm autumn night
always,
i'd choose to have it,
always with you.

oh, they come in the troves of a’thousands
yes, the gulls overhead come in troves
watching the water as they appear,
and take every saltwater fish from the sea
this is the season of music a'plenty
but plenties tend to appear and recede...

tales from a bench by the fire
in a home so lichened,
recently it sprouted a tree on the roof
this home was constructed
a thou-sand years,
before any knowledge of myself was conceived.

so take every fish from every sea
and take every stock of red beeberries
here i will rest and refill my glass
as the tree on the roof will observe life and death,
these seasons of cold will come and then pass.