It's dark out
And it smells like springtime


We beat bruises into the skins of drums
We process
Bundled blanket men try to sleep in the hollows of the dark
Glass crunches with each step


And still  it  smells  like   Springtime


I never knew that air could taste like this and
I want to caress the folds of the first flower I find



I don't feel violence anymore
But the drums keep beating themselves


Like hearts do


The knuckles release


The smell of springtime

 

The moon is a Cyclops
Slowly winking at eternity
With a knowing smile


But my eyes are two
And I see you
In parallax


It's all relational
And relationships are never certain


Two objects at equal distance
Circling around one another
Attracted by equal force
Moving in opposite directions


Just circling

The motion of emotion

 

we are the old gods, not quite dead
blood and soil
strange and ancient


we are beard and hair
wild, untamed
stone and yellowed wolf skins


we are wisdom unwritten
bark and leaf
the permanence of change


this earth is us
this black dirt
and we smell it and it remembers


this is the night
mysterious, full of strange imaginings
the silence of the sun


the fallen leaf decays and feeds the new life
we are that
we cycle


bone and time
blood and soil
the old gods

 

I won't boast
The lachry-most
Because years of tears
Will leave us broke
And begging for change


But if a single saline moment
Wept into me
A single salient moment
That would mean everything


A tear is a dream that you have to shed
But only to make room for new ones
Each moment is an entire world of possibilities abandoned
And that hurts


But the future never gets any smaller

Single self split sidelong and tandem
a-part we two head-sea and parting
dual of depth no shadow too deep
for doubled the width of feeling


of measured and meagered and pressured to me
this thought for preaching
so precious


gap singled by crush
waves of one return for it's done
ripples of us for saying