No. 1Read More
why do birds leave for the winter? the ones who sing?
but the gray pigeons sink into the snow and wait patiently.
"There are songs that you cannot hear, but under the hollow glow
of the towers and sun."
In the white silence of your comb
glistening between the strands of your
pines creak in the distance
quiet rustlings of a waking forest
tall growth and mist.
Both unseen but felt
on your skin,
and under your feet.
Moss breathing out the names of past lovers.
Who has lain with me here?
Comfortably silent and full
belly round as the moon, writing new notes
for her night orchestras.
The discipline of peace and full mouths.
The addiction to air.
Fill yourself with me
and try to sing.
In her eyes, you will become the city I live in. There are some hours in the day
when I do not think about love.
We are full of flames and woe and bad coffee drank hurriedly in the mornings.
full of half held hands at the frontier of a war we signed for,
passing each other in the hall of an early morning
full of the cries of children and bills.
The heart is not a haven
into which the lovers slip through
it is the eye of your storm
buttonhole of hell.
The wind is black when it rains
but at night you can’t hold onto me.
And I was instructed not to initiate.
Every pocket of her face
hides small fragments of my heart
— pulling down.
I become fond of this girl taking, claiming, her space in you.
- in|reversRead More
From that place that people leave
from the place where time tells you stories
and ascends into signs on the dirty blue ceiling,
I come to where we are.