Back from High Range

struggles, incredulous.
like the back-door of our house in Ramshackle, you didn't swing back home, smack, at just the right time.
there was a low-down, gut-right blast in our hearts and you came, dizzy, on the crest of my dime.
it wasn't you she asked for, it wasn't that you were even a last thought, it wasn't so much as a flicker that you weren't there yet, not in time
but that you just hazed out
you couldn't understand yet, too cloudy to move, too stunned to jerk,
confused enough to lose your balance
and fall into the only arms that would hold themselves out to you,
and you cried then.
water when you've only got dry land.

Winged Creature and I'm Losing

from my bed i am secretly scanning the widths and lengths of the walls, the constructions of paint and particles organized in units, battalions.
their formation startles me in corners, at edges.
incongruous precipice.
the room takes on a breathier feel, like daffodils against the grain of tissue-paper. i trail the inconsistencies of sunbeams that crawl and stretch themselves against my skin. the hours are long and show no signs of consolation, no sympathy for my disposition.
i am not entirely alone here, with the larks pale chirp, the molecules that dance invisible around my space, your letters that spill your voice, rushing and distant, your last goodbyes.
with the moth that has found itself a home on my lethargic, open palm. the moth that does not move.
that does not make a sound.

If this is not a love song....

just when you said it was over and i couldn't flake the honey off my lips, and i found the missing part of this clock-work reverie, the spaces from inside to out of us blister with anticipation. but wasn't it the last line, and wasn't it the only breath
you ever really needed?
and wasn't i the only one? wasn't this the war you would have won?
and i don't call the fires now
i don't make the seas come
and you should hear me speaking now, i am just a whisper here,
and you
you were always beautiful.
just when you turned out of here like the swirling spring winds
i had this moment when i couldn't recall
the last things you said
the last thing you touched
and you said you'd always have my eyes.
and you don't know the streets that I've wandered
the water i've floated over
just for this
just for an answer
just for a flicker
just for you.
but wasn't it the last line?
wasn't it the only breath you ever really needed?
and wasn't i the only one? wasn't this the war you would have won?
just a whisper here.
and you were always beautiful.

Cube on my feather

boy, there must've been a line drawn, a circle
could come back to this. but if it couldn't warm, warm up to the heat i desired
you know that i'll be around there
somewhere just rounding
the corner again
and i'll carmelize after all the windows are opened and clean. just like that.

from the corners of eastern europe ladies with parasols
and lovers with dark expressions worn thick like overcoats
come out into leaning on suppositions like i do, like i do,
and do it all the time. only this is not my home,
didn't build this castle with shrines set for deities not entirely dead,
and you know that i'll be around there
somewhere just rounding
the corner again
and i'll carmelize after all the windows are opened and clean. just like that.

but isn't this the part where
we turn on the lights and things take on a new glow?
and isn't this the turn where you miss me and still
it isn't all you know? but the summers are loud
and boys all crest
in with their wings and their fresh-tested feathers, scratching at
my panes.
but you know that i'll be around there
somewhere just rounding
the corner again
and i'll carmelize after all the windows are opened and clean. just like that.