Month: September 2014

conjunction

There’s a galaxy of
stars that cling to rocks,
crawling over things
to drag you down
to the ocean’s floor.

The ocean is six miles deep
(and that’s only what we can see)
between what’s said
and what’s left.

When sand burns
into looking glass
beneath the glare
of your brights,
the floor’s
not solid and

you’ll slow-sink
in quick-sand,
the coming unknown
swallowing you
dry like a pill
so it burns on
the way down.

I think that
the stars would
reach out
to you,
that it
would
come too
late and
sand would
have filled
your eyes
already.

We learned
toswim
at a
youngage
in a
chlorinatedpool;
you were
soafraid
to jump
inthedeep
end.

re:

January I broke a window,
when I ducked for cover
from hail the size of mice.
The stars laughed at me.

February saw me
sit at the lakeshore
waiting for the
groundhog’s shadow.

April marched over,
shattered the
mirror I fell through.
Maybe that’s that.

I can’t fathom six
miles in any direction.
But you taught me
how to fake it.

The stars are lead
by the swimming
tiger, denizen of
those lazy rivers
of time-turning sand.

Boundlessly they flow,
followed by fools of
gold teeth, muddy
boots from orchards
of dank crab-apples
who rest their claws
in broken dives.

From the Audubon
into the junction
at the world’s edge
where andforbutso
thatwhenratherthough
neither, yet met( on a bridge)

Only once did we
pause to count
how long is a while.

The ocean is six miles deep
but that’s only what we can see.

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There’s a beginning, then
a pause.

 

I.

Deep within the farthest recesses
of cracked marble,
a bird finds an ember,
and swallows it whole.

II.

Fire drips like
the candle
from your first birthday:
a volcanic eruption of
horseshoes.
We spin ‘round a pole
incessantly hopeful.

III.

A haunted tree
follows you in your dreams,
and sometimes I think I see
its shadow, reaching outwards
over the horizon from
your pupil.

IV.

Ghosts live in the faded
watermarks on the mirror
in our bathroom –

V.

They spread like roots.
farandwideand
knobbed like your spine,
against my chest.

VI.

We’ve tried this before,
but I’m fond of repetition
and I want to think
you could be fond
of me.

VII.

At least,
that’s what you told me with
flashlight morse code
beneath the covers.

VIII.

We can drink rainbows
because there’s oil in the water
that breeds phantasmagoric
fungi that coat our ribcage,
weakening our wings’ clasp.

IX.

he’s not exact.

 

The leaves brown and it’s a sign of the fall.