Fill the Trees

Come to feed, you paper wolves.

And fill the trees. And split this ground.

Your breath, your wool. Your heavy hearts.

From crumpled moons.

The midnight sounds.

Dream

My work, he screamed, stuck beneath piano keys.

A lullaby.

A soft, good night.

A dream.

A dream.

Feller

Oh, fallen words.

Have come to death? A line. A box.

Oh, mirror cracked. Connect the…

Oh, mystery.

Obliterate.

 

Drift

Unsaid. A drift, a blaze.

For tides to turn and come around, a hundred years, a hundred years.

To deep, it says, to deep.

For stars reflect this whispered breath, and light turns ink and sinks and sinks.

To deep, it says, to deep.

This night, this woe.

Row, it says, and row and row.

Miracle

This miracle of graves, this rift of sunken hearts.

This thin line may…

-dis-con-nect-

…this beat, this cold held hand, this walk along the beach…my love.

As leaves collect and sit and sift down grains and wind through blades can cut your cheek.

The end just has to be.

Fabric

For moon’s deep set and stairs descent. These things are drilled to fabric and sunken dust, when and where the sky looks bare, forever there and there and theirs.

And shifting red for all to sea.

And shifting red for poetry.

Conclude

Of earned remarks, these tracks. Too long to line and steal for thieves, all (but) gone.

Trailed to setting sun…and forks and knives that stab. Consumed.

And slipped, to be.

For gone.

Conclusion.

Burd

This dust. Drifts of dust and lit up stuff, webbed. However tiny, diminished.  It cannot be, yet breathe we must and turn and turned to rust. That burd can float, can sink like once. The end is slip, is dust.

Flirt

On webs and moldy draw, these visions lift. A thing to flirt, a Thing of dirt. Waxing down after foot, creeped. Between your neck and that cold that cracks, this Thing exists behind veiled threats, to form your blur and spoil our bones…snapped…on distance it endures.

From wings of sleep, it floats. Your eyes are still…there.

This Thing. This ghost.

Crumbed

However.

That’s how time clicks down to teeth, contrapt. A steep to tick and wriggled loose, sent to spill, and kept…yet separate? As plan unfolds for march, for mile.

Your weird can’t breathe a second chance.

And that’s just the way it is…crumbed.

However.

Maze

These certain things exist upon secret maze and split. These certain things revolve (around a round) to test resolve of sand and fog. To sink a wave and offer oar. Align in the sand. Drawn to meet and bleached.

Fallen and fair, a haze of darting shine, spinning and spinning. A shape (a mold). A shape appears from not and fades to naught, yet still a shape.

And for and from these things exist.

And for and from the fog persists.

Groan

And now you’ve made your bones (from seas to stars), locking step with comet’s fall (as rings and moons) and tidal crawl. As night stays drape (black and full) of rotten cold. Sealed in lids, sealed in boxes beneath hinging groan, behind a thousand suns. Burst with not but knots and twist, a maze of those wrapped upon the other still, falling from your window sill.

Limb

This useless limb can crack and twist, in infinite repetition. In between this thing and the shadow of a thousand doubts, however stacked in fever. This dream repeats to your catching seize, and burns and burns on open seas and slumber breaks as ashes float from lash to lash. The terror rolls on waves, you see, and settles down to sunken graves.