i pull up a chair to myself and stare at myself....
i eat the Rhine of a melon of rivers... reflecting and dissolving
into my constituent arts.
i fumble and regain.
then the bubbles burst like pixies
on a stone salt cake. but I dream again. and the pipes of twilight
flock to my eardrums, gutting the writhing dark -
and singing the Potomac
of a sun -

I Thought.

famine chose me to lie to myself. curved my tongue from my truth
and sang new gospels through my fear
that only the moon could howl
or a dog could hear.

not even a nightingale
could sing
without a sacrifice.
i fear.

i bled through my ' No '.

and Nowhere yes
was so.

too many bees were busy. the backyard howling with black and yellow now... the sun high in the memory of Blue.
the heat of a day, baking the laughter and fright as we fled.
oh, how the screened doors quickened -
as we hastily retired to our exhaustive
debriefing, like a gaggle of goose.
for if we were geese -
where would be the breaking of
the rule ?

As night folk,  i am not right. too deep-end, and unquantified.
the high-low blip on the surface of an incomplete thought.
i love to wade in the tendrils of nightfall... and spark.
but i can't breathe all the time, because some **** is real.
and some **** is your life.

In the awkward air adjacent to the quivering sterility
lay the corpse of our Summer... twitch whizzing about the underworld
and all the glories afforded the stupid
and profane.

In the marshlands, where we grew our few dark orchards
and prattled on about the ' state of Things '
but without the Capital ' T '.

how we wrangled Hope into a jar of honeyed feathers
and broke bread, over north winds....  
cackling our sorrows like a hot mess
over stoic boulders
and quaint
sunsets.

and said yes.

however many hours i lay waste
i come upon the moment that salvages the redundant disregard.
i come about.
i assume the stature of an eye in a field of color...
sacrosanct and devoted to the never-ending spiral
of a perfect thing.

i cannot suture the forbidden
but i can usher the warm delirium
of a fresh hearth.
all the bonny winds of leaving
that keep you in your
place.

alive.

and no other thing outside me...

save the night.

some of us boil.

we are not like water hovering over a flame.
more like a flame at the bottom
of a frigid chasm.

unfathomable.