for no flowers

are storehouses

like the silos

for our grain,

when some flowers

wither too soon

and out of season

fall the blooms

cursed by wind,

or word or cold

or heat or drought

or time (most of all)

-some have tried:

a florist's hand

at natural cloth

is no match

for looms in grass

and fields of waving thread.

you died too soon

(we would say)

and no more

are your petals

and for no flowers

are storehouses

like the silos

for our grain.

but we, weeping, try

to bring you back

fruitless is our hand:

our vain attempt

to change the season

withers like the grass,

again.

word's aren't perfect,

and neither am i,

you can see it

in my shoes:

threads unraveled,

sole near bare,

from gravel and glass,

from running and typing;

all the lefts

and rights i spoke

only to return-

"i'm so sorry"

doesn't change at all

the fact of the trail

or the taste on my tongue

or the shame i feel

when you look down

and see the wilderness

on my feet.

we built broad roofs,

wings upon wings

raising the rafters

higher, higher

avian homes, in our hearts

arose to shelter

dreams aside dreams.

(we drew the plans

in secret rooms

pens and trace

layer on layer.

lines unflawed

were hopes and hopes

to synthesize

an unbuilt hanger)

months and months

have passed along

since visions

of a nest had hatched,

now wings unfeathered

and rafters rusted

we have yet to call

the sky our home

i miss
the late night air
and the morning breeze
around cafe scents

i miss
the oaken leaves
and the red sunsets
behind the clouds, wisps.

i miss
the hum of cars
and the sound of your voice
over locusts' hiss

i miss
the cycle of the days
and the end of all this.

a man
is not
enough
instead
crawls back
into
an egg
each night
to hatch
each day
again the same.
his feet
a drill
into
a pore
the face
of which
will host
his growth
until
he flies away.

i.

you and i,
we are two houses
on a ridge of our realities
founded on philosophies
we are brittle, and square
and it is known that wind opposes
all perpendicularity
but almost unnoticed
the nuances of the air

ii.

the sky spits on the ground
the hail rattles on the ground
the way the windows also rattle
when the sound of thunder invokes their fear
and so each pane
in the sun is an eye
but in the storm
is an ear.

iii.

lanterns flicker
dancing tongues
speak out into the night
people move about inside
songs are sung as light.
you and i,
we must construct
such a glass around ourselves
so we may too
dance about
unafraid of weather.

i do know why,
but i do not know why
i dictate silent paragraphs
use sighs as exclamation points
and breathe in extra-deep.

something i have lost,
or not lost anything along
remains as black-stain letters
a cloud of key-stroked ink
too deep to speak with breath.

feathers belong to birds
and cursive words (permanent)
and to the air, floating free
and to my story, if only
described in silent breathing,
or something i have lost.