sleep soft, tonight

we shared a storm-cloud

and nothing more

than loudness, both ours

and dousing sounds

same wet rains,

thunder, the lightning

and damp remains

in the morning,

soft light.

the stuff

no, the response

we call it 'matter'

you

(getoutyourelectronmicroscope)

need a preposition

to see it

= dialogues

and a question

i have is

who do i matter

to?

as i listen-

love&weather

here.

walked on the side

and carried the

other ams,

underneath my arm

stuffed into

a plastic bag

the fabric wet,

manifested ands

of collected "whos" or

the thought of me, the weight

that being, fills my hands

and pulling, sways my gait

but barefoot,

walking back

with unburdened pace

(the lightened clothes, or)

ams or ands

mattered less than

the who of place.

i stand above

in the dark and

see lit-up vowels

on a once-quiet plain

like whispers to no-one

that i hear them

a concession

to a secret love

to talk to patterns

with my wonder

and my withouts

how could i?

or could i lie

face-up on roads and

fill my eyes

with filaments of

love, the other weather

where the blankets cover

beds of the raining lands

over heads

wisps of winds

and the when of currents

vexes droughted grounds,

with brings hope

seasons change with,

condensing into we,

where the gables channel

like the folded hands

at the altar-

then warm is love and

bright are days

when the other weather

becomes a sun in springtime lands

together smiles at eachother.

dust collects inside a house

as snow upon the mountaintops

dust to dust, ash to ash

death to life, spring

is lovely to the senses

pleases with its warmth

and scents, colors bright

the sunlight as it waxes, but

movement is illusory,

for it betrays the moment:

juxtaposed against the sky

the ground is pregnant, and

potent are the petals

tucked behind the bud

and pressed into darkness

words between the pages