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.

the longevity of

poesy is in

its listening, not

the human hand

steadfast, grasping

pen and presses

when just

10,000 years

of sun would fade

away the letters

stamped on pages

until they fluttered

white as snow

in the rays.

now, the earth is

cold calling

in respiratory ages

mountains rise

and falling like the

breaths of sleep

in rock.

mother time's

hand feels a dot of

braille in her sweeping

forward: the names

of ancestral strength,

another, little babylon.

the music box of

universes rings for

a few seconds, the theme

of love sings forever

under our today's

encounter of her.