the power of being humble
always seems to forfeit my
control to some refractory
pulse that teaches me such
great yet subtle things.

the wind's grace,
the sound's space,
and the magnetic poles
that continually favor
a spiral-
drawing lines
in my sand.

she ran when she felt
what such sweet silk
could come from
such dark linens.
drove away by the
fullness of his singing
heart and its flushing into
her cheeks. it was his
curse. to lose all that they
ever knew precious from
the sounds of his own
mouth: how he had
to watch as they left.

we land
from high above
to crash into
eachother's arms.

these spiders in the rafters
don't weave webs,
they just stare with
all 8 legs and 53 eyes.
hark they marking their prey from
high above.
they want me to
save myself by wandering my eyes up
to them camoflauged in the architecture and
play in their mirage of angels that
give like gargoyles.
well, I wonder if they feel the spit
as it lands on the concrete at
my feet.
or miss the kiss of sanctity's sweet.