carves on the tree
remind me of being free
gift wrapped exclamation
hailing the evaluations
implies that interwine the ax
to the whole tradition

We all get lost sometimes,
trying to follow a stream of lightbulbs
flickering on in our heads
that lead to a place where you can unlock your heart.

Trace my love in the half-shell curve of a woman’s back,
Like the naked wetland of Egypt, ibis-nest of the Nile delta.
Lovely woman, throw your arm back like a tethered cord,
To this sledge-mason for your pyramids, this falcon-doting ward
Of your gold capstones, all-seeing eyes over the west-bank shore.

Love, our days of polished limestone are wind-scoured,
Left like a pile of petrified fruit from figs and bottle gourds.
Love, always forget, now the sand has filtered into my pores
And cascades into the empty shell of my quarried heart.

There is no room for God in the machine.
Between the gears greased with the blood and regrets.
A tick tock of grinding, copper and gold.
At the base the china doll rests in soot
a tear running down its porcelain cheek.
On and on, a circus of industry.
Colorblind of all but the greys and red.
A huddle of birds in the rafters pray
that perhaps they'll escape this hell one day.

i want to talk about you
to everyone i know
i want to shut my mouth
and keep you to myself
my heart flares up
explodes with thoughts of you
and i can't catch the words
and i can't catch my breath