Our words hold close,
unhinge, this dream–
a singular
translucent dawn.
Narrative fragments
float around a room,
flotsam and jetsam
without back story,
without connection
to a set array
defining truth, lies
into difference.
An organic flux
tendrils arabesques
along fractal lines
until we shatter.
(November 11, 2019)
The sound of my last dream
will be silence: the silence
of fog, the silence of fear.
My last dream will echo
the clack of high heels
on wet London streets.
My last dream will be warm
like your bare skin beneath
my hands late at night.
My last dream will linger
over the thousand, thousand
kisses: your lips soft,
warm, hungry for more.
My last dream will be free
of doubt, secure in coherence
with all the lines blurred.
My last dream will not wake
to return me to a place
it can never know.
My last dream will be
a harbor, a sanctuary,
a last whispered breeze.
(October 15, 2019)
She spoke without preface,
as if sh knew him:
each sentence a non-sequitar
even to itself; no beginning
no end, no predicate
to bend into an open heart.
Askew to his position,
she formed a fulcrum
with no place to stand
like surf far out to sea
crashing against itself.
Until in a froth of inaction,
he drowned, swallowing his words,
as if they mattered.
(August 21, 2019)
The lie of my truth
visors the angle
of my descent.
I have no face,
but reflection,
a mirror
to lace assumption’s
discordance.
My flesh contains
shattered selves—
a prismatic array,
where each shard
bends an image
of itself into another.
This truth lies
along an edge
of broken glass;
it slices the air
with ribbons of light,
like tall grass
cuts children’s legs
as they flee through
the last summer fields.
(August 15, 2019)
Yielding more
than simple correspondences,
or letters marked in a ledger,
words bend fields
through which we see
distortions and clarities
reflected like sunlight
in a waterfall’s spume.
they reveal and cloak
certainties in our unease
with what we should believe
as true, and what we know
to be a lie as we speak.
(July 29, 2019)
like pressed flowers
found in an old book
the world grows flat
long passages of white
on white– white sand
below a white sky
holding a white sun
a black line defines
the horizon like a closed eye
there’s no sleep in this noise
no rest from the silent mundane
oozing across a glass pane
the snail’s slow slime
becomes the air we traverse
connecting the featureless day
to the homogeneous night
clouds press low like stones
(July 24, 2019)
each day I revise
and renew the dream
if not into now then
some other when
where I want to be
becomes possible
for the moment
in which I’m in
dream dreams
dreams too until
all the seams
between seem as
if some other were
only what is here
(May 30, 2019)
