it is like you have
existed before i,
and in the darkness,
your lightness beckons.

it is like
your bright body has
mapped the secret roads
to unearth my bones
and scale them
to love's density.

it is like
the wind under every flight,
girdled to the height
of laughter lifting in moonlight,
never falls
never shatters.

it is like you have drawn
a line between
body and soul and every night,
when all lights have swayed
to their prisons,
you cross the border
where we both meet,
body
soul

in the
equinox.

these are the tiny currents
   of how you make me feel.
   they fritter like light
    from an agape console
   and when they close us in,
   that light slowly resigns
     to its cage
  like how we first nestled into
     each other's arms.

this is the moon that remembers
   your silence
  and these are my eyes that
   stare at the moon to
    ruin it into all the noises
   the world could ever bayonet
  through cities tender with sleep.
   and this is the soul
   that will recall everything
   and forget, flinching from
   the inward-breaking, pale bodied
    concrete are the many lives
   that we break to have little,
   hummingbird knowledge
    that we are alive.

looking at you.

  the wrest of images
  which imaginary kisses
  have real warmth,

  and that i,
  dazed into a normal thing,
  demarcated in the abyss of
  this lonesome wanting,
  have been reaching out
  into the palpable distance,
  your image elusive of my grasp

    like a thing
         that refuses
            to be
              pinned
                down.

it is all too sudden
without preparation

when i start to write.
say for example,

the night waxes
superior over everything.

verdigris walls emerge
vandalized by breakable light
and the sounds ever so small
in the hollow belly of
this evening --

like a flowerless jar
and i am to put in it,
words the structure
of roses.

something
like
this.