Daily,
Anna Tole
rides by me.

sitting up straight;
pedaling awkwardly.

she looks down:
maybe at the dirt
or a stone,

but it’s most probably
something i cant see
with glass eyes
alone.

she sees things…

like a seed taking root
or a nest where foxes
chew rocks
in constant costly pursuit
of that elusive sharper tooth

clouded. constant. clarity.

she looks closer
to see grains of sand
much darker
than her pre-disposed
pre-dawn
darkness

the kind
that attaches itself
tangled up behind her

she might as well be
tying soda cans
to tap out a
telegraph message

s.o.s…s.o.s…s.o.s…

Mostly i hate to shiver, but
as of late
my mind floats
like a glacier

on a tundra. it’s almost as if
i long to be frozen, of finally

crystallizing.

spread thinly across a moment. For

what is winter but
a season of correction and
what else does snow
hide, but warm seeds
not yet equipped or

ready:

to make an assault;
to reach for the;
unfolding firmament.
and how else:

will white blankets behave?
then to collect and save
every prism of light”
crawling toward it,
like the pilgrimage of a wave~
no longer discriminating].

against boundaries:
past, present, and future
and (all at once).

&latel;;, i cannot
quench my thirst
for the ice 0f eternity
to melt f1rst


our corporeal frigid for/\ /\s


into puddles of everlasting
currents.|||\/\/\/^\/\/^\\||||\/\/\/^\/\/^

it was on all the news channels,
your shipwreck.

for miles,
and from distant lands,

whose soil
you never even met,
they traveled for you.

all around us
the promised ringing—

circle of:
banshee sharks,
phantom whales,
and reaching shadow tentacles.

glimmer—
you are sunken treasure.

but either from
the weight of your necklace,

or the summoning,
voodoo grasps of
gravity,

we were:
entranced in depth
and the fleeing
whiteness of your dress,

both them,

and me,

floating…

knowing full well,
where you go,

and that we could not venture there,


as our body-suits
could only take so much
pressure.

this, my dear, is madness:
the scent of your blood
drifting

in open water.

the world;
and my bed.

which
is the refuge?

and which
is the storm?

when
long time friends:

are inward
projections;

are simply further proof
of myself;

are shadowy
conjugal visits:

holding hands
with their phantom limbs.

every day,
dissolved and disillusioned,

nails rake
dirt

and it
doesnt feel real

i'm
poking holes.

into

shrouds! fogs!
lights! atoms!

im confused

when i think
of the flicker
of my existence

when i think
about how i've
treated it like a joke
like something that comes around
revolving in the ends of bicycle spokes

when i think
good things come
to those who wait
and not those who take

when i think
all is fair in love
despite the fact
that every dosage quickly dissolves
and divorces
it's original qualities

when i think
nothing is quite as it seems
when every surface
conceals denser meanings

when i think
smoke is a sign
that homes are burning
places that i once loved
are changing.

i remember childhood
like i forget most moments,
something
is always missing

like every autumn
i'd go upstate
to pin ornaments onto trees
like they were war veterans who lost their feet

and rake
stockpiles of leaves

(i can hear their tiny spines breaking)

the ground crackled
because i walked on fire
it was easy
it smelt stale

i recall the fall
in mounds.

i never landed .

i remember floating.