there is no taming the skin… only the move your bones dream
and the perdition  of untapped memes, sprawling in the perfume
of our disquieted assembly. soothing thorns
north of our spine
as crumble joy mocks the the path
of our appalling
with a woeful rime too bright
in the head
to have all
the problems
of being too
unloved.
tonight.

we are not common. we are “ other than “ and then some.
more like a gaggle of geese in a windmill forged in the furnace
of lost tongues. cute and abbreviated . but on fire
like an ice song.
we keep the heat where the actual gods of our demise
laugh too hard to be soft now, because
"Gods".
i sleep in your dreams now
like a nocturne in a fable.
i keep our secrets where they are naked
and too broad to be discreet
at sunrise.
i assume you have wings
and therefore the night
will have to chase
us both.
too fleet to be real.
too genuine
to be
less
than
Us.

when i fell asleep
inside you
love was wide
awake

a tantrum of idle thoughts about you throughout the haze of day
resembles itself like a wave of unrelenting devotion surpassing lanes-
parallel to memory’s road that veers far left of our fondest wish
however we drive our sanity to the nearest bar to forget our hope.
it is love spilling into sleepy spoons
with tsunami dreams of perpetual
You.

Ingenious hourglass pinching a single grain in your sourmash
till it Distills the moment you forgot to be a Slave to your Aftermath
Reigning Supreme at the center of your Winter’s Wrath
Dining on Porcelain Lions dancing on a Plinth of Glass Ravens
As they Laugh in awe of your Emancipation
No longer under Grief’s Lash.

Reflection never stutters…
utterly stuck to who you are, should you Ask.
Faithful to a crisp seeming in the eye halls of your last Gasp,
If only we Knew, before we struck Bells in the Ice Caves of
Our deported Masks- And save Ourselves completely
From Our Symphonies
Of Painful Past.

But for Now our Love
in a Paper Flask.

Anchored to the tip of a vicious pin
too whalesong to cog
careful to strictly wither
with a liberal eye
at the foot of a moon
smelling salts and assaults
upon absolute time
like a
cage-breaker
mending
cages

with smart
hands to the task
at hand -
but dumbluck
for parchment
and large blocks of flotsam
charging into dawn
with an ornate spear
for the heart
of a mundane
dark.
lest your heart
be your
gallows

( tin star
and
hole ).