after a series of what I can now see
were clearly one-sided encounters
of genuine flirtation
came the period of silence
from your lying lips
and now you've managed
somehow
to plant those lips on mine
for an awkward and forced moment
that was in no way returned
and have the audacity to muster the sentence
"I still got it"

cause i can't tell.

your tongue said it once,

now i'm lost in a spell.

it's a switch flipped .

a dazy trip.

falling through the fingers

of your last hard grip -

*contemplating the compliment that comes with you.

When white-caps broke the Winter shore
The dirt had loved this tree no more
Birds who lost their taste for fish
Peck the wood bugs as succulent dish

"I hold myself above the sand
once overseer
baron of this untouched land"

Wind ran through his friends stood frame
Whom host less life, who's bark more tame
Lost count of rings decades ago, busy
Holding small ones from the snow


"Only once did man touch this land
In this, in us, they came to understand
We're small ones, we're trees
We're all the sand."

Nothing is always as life, not always in it's time
Nothing is always as death, as I gave the forest mine

Oh this were if only it were if
it might
be more possibly

to wantingly be.


                                    (but only)
                                          it's
                                        were

not if
or could.

Or if
it were
is

                       it might


(would)

     be.



an'
pleasantly so.

I cut my hair and wove it into your skull with my fingertips.
And painted my blood on your mouth to give you red, red lips.
Smoothed the lines on your face with my hand,
And shaped your legs and your feet so you may stand.
With my breath I gave you life,
And with my death I leave no strife.

w

          w



                         wh



                                             what loves


                                                     this
                                                        I?i
                                                      loves the
                                                      rushing of in girls
                                                      Summer when heat
                                                      does its lips in forked
                                                      seething.

                                                       I loves
                                                       the hush
                                                       of almost winter nights
                                                       and the concise
                                                       melancholy
                                                       of empty rooms.


                                                        I loves
                                                        the by
                                                        cherriest of wristness
                                                        to loosely
                                                        in vagrant slumber
                                                        stir whitely.


                                                        I loves
                                                        the brother of my brother, and
                                                        the little timid
                                                        of barely unviolence boys
                                                        (in fists very tightly which).

                                                         But.

                                                          w w   ww what loves
                                                           Iis
                                                           the most
                                                           of life
                                                           and lessing
                                                           too
                                                           of it
                                                           into
                                                           primest daftness of sleep.

Hide my face from the spurious hopes of autumn,
They bloom from summer's desperation,
Their fruits are rows of teeth,
And they are planted in night seasons under cold stars,
Which stare down upon the children of those who turn in their sleep,
For they become sleepless men,
And I refuse to be their king

For the past few months—three, to be exact—
deep crescent moons
of crushed violets and ash
have framed my eyes.

*Have you been sleeping well?