i swallowed the air

between cobbled steps,

sat at the feet of

santa maria del fiore,

an old friend.

she whispered perfect doubt

into my young-sure mind

of affairs between walls,

and the life in those of cells,

and that one is

thousands of years old

and the other is not.

so, i am always there

as sure as i folded up the map

and slipped it into

my coat's breast pocket,

as sure as my red blood

carried the same substance

she breathed. and youandi

is as true as campanile bells

calling to mass is dance

of things unseen and feet.

like

hands become hammers

(softly) strike

strings in curved caverns,

so when we sit

at love,

resounds the lark

song from un

adorned words

along a moment's

river

i am my

newsprint-grayed

nervous hand,

that wants to find

the table top

edge,

fiddles with

the corner,

fake and

glued together

to resemble

fruits of calloused

hands and

sharp teeth. the

thinness of newspapers

and the tendons

clutching words

and the wrist which

is resting on the

mdf + laminate

on screwed-in legs

on some floor, over

god-knows what on

the ground, on the

ground, on

ground. i press

into my surface

the line from whatever

corner i'm at, because

i just read

the words and

the left-out letters

asked me where

i was.

temple rested on

a chest is not

unlike a vessel

over swelling sea,

(exhale, in)

and some say

tongues steer;

truly, we who

bear sail, are

at the mercy of

wind, at the surface

of love.

will, a fragile glass

which liquid life

escapes at

slightest tilt,

trembling hands

by which i

drink, tremble

at the fear

of thirst, her

sister laps up

running water,

eyes look down in

the wild stream.

i used to drink

with her.

clenched too hard,

the strongest

human vessel cracks,

spilling, wet with

tears of guilt.

the table bears

hardness and

puddles on which

i rest my hand

and close my eyes

to think of

baptism at the foot

of mountains

h\eld

but)

(blood. pigments)

i (the p:ieces of me

an/d :

this sha.rd display\

pieces o f\ moved:

a . .

r

ou .

.

n/

d .

(that's euphemistic

at b\est,: :

for) br/oken pottery

:

down. . .

blood is (life, :

closed

it /is) death

in t/he open

flow

and break:

. line\s .

draws its,

is drawn .

was profilevolume

insidebodyi

'

m .

but dis ( cl

amor of

sha/tter) connect

ed.

are

vessels .

the same

when

)can't/

h\old

water

"o" white blood

cells [are :

ro/oms of .

hospitals] :

any

/

more? .

nOwle/ss than

thedust

clay

lik\e them

again

and sharp /\.

:

careful :

\ .

careful

.

"BE CAREFUL"

hands .

hands

(hands)

: .

:

:

warned.

with blood

.

/

\ .

but i want

to hold

yours.

:

:

:

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

after waxes lines

cross hemispherical

on the ground,

life wears

layers down,

spinning tires

for 10,000 miles

(the what and where)

after you (the who)

tire, you wear

nightsky&ground, then

leave the immaterial

journey behind.