his eyes caressed

42-pt futura bold

(coldly, of course).

as she slipped by,

he lifted his eyes

to see no straight lines

in her moving body,

then set them back down

on the table,

next to the black-hot cylinder

(he never spilled)

and those grey

19th-century rectangles.

faithful.

if we are not awakened by light,

we are by wilt;

knowing even living things

loose their living to the wind,

feeling cusp of shifting ground,

suddenly the planet tilt.

you were worried by the car,

its noisy power steering

broken and leaking spots

on the ever-curved ground.

i missed fireflies.

the signal flares in the grass

whispered "God is light"

or something else.

did they lie?

where we've been,

we don't need cars, or

halogens, driving to see

hands-in-pockets billboards

offer odd transubstantiation,

new wine cupbearers

lying without consciousness.

awakened leaves tell the truth

when they die to tree

and live to air; we are

obsessed with our own impermanence,

clinging to tense.

fading fake colors

in the suns of our imitations.

you made my heart a homeland

in the days of open skies,

rivers in seas sent you to me

and you made port in my eyes.

colonized ribcage, settled side

filled up with hut and house of

rough-hewn logs, than brick

weighed down on trodden soil

i droughted you out;

sent you back to unkown waters.

your xenophobic mouth tensed

at the sight of odd-shaped sails

i did not know here as i wished to

today; a brick, not a building

or one step towards miles, arbitrary

measures on a sphere (i am.)

life, she is a girl worth chasing

she is not here, but carries herself

with an air of countlessness and

in an art of stealth, walking

besides, soundlessly placing bits

of me for due time;

i will kiss her when i die.

biographic

young, i sat in laps

and held tall hands.

she sung in rooms

next to us, i asked

and didn't understand

but heard the singing

in my ears and my head.

infatuation followed

the blooming of epiphany

where any sight of her

satisfied soulmindheartevery

part of me:

she made enough.

such a pretty face she had

(except in harsher light,

edges of stray shadows

would defile her

complexion in

complexity

in

to

dark)

to betroth, before love

said the ones,

who once were tall.

i loved her so

in the moment

in the sometimes

in the good light.

the night before,

wanted to love her

in the nightlight

which sharply cast

the darkest cuttings

across her face

canceling everything

i knew about her shape.

yesterday, i stood in shoes

hands in pockets.

awoke to her

in the morning mist

my arm, in drift

clasping nothing, and then sheets

(got up in the night,

wandered away)

she was infertile,

at any rate.

my dream in that sleep:

the world was filled with

even light, about the trees

about the yous and i(s)

were drenched in rationale

and bathed the all

and turned me on.

song is naught

but apparitions

complexion for complexity

to make me wish

for silence

or forgetting of

her face.

eight-thousand one-hundred twenty-eight

days to write realities, and sleep

in those given to me.

words are the residue, crumble into

memories behind my head rising

in the morning.

(8128) in a cocoon,

in the meeting room, i could almost

peak out. when voices congruent

give illusions of flight and the

words drip residual off

fabric soft, but stiffening

wet, like the sheets waking up

on kansas august mornings.

over eight-thousand and some-number

thoughts i had today

about the essence of emergence

and what we leave when we've said

everything, and go away,

about the nature of our nature

and the ultimate transience of

eight-thousand, one-hundred twenty eight

days in the thing we've called existence

as a thing whose nature crumbles

every morning when awake.

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