CONFESSION:

I thought your love had left
or worse, your love had gone
and I do not want to live-
not amongst this loss
accounted for, resolved, and
    echoing -
the future and past wound
    tight -
something seeming suspended, heavily-
    yet

Perhaps not proper perceived
    have I made it all about me?
What if the love: never a lover
    was once there here a bed
bricked in the bedroom it framed
    I couldn't yet see a name
I turned the cover into a wall
    then turned the wall into a tomb.

Perhaps the bird was just a bird
It could have been that winter was here
Perhaps it could have been spring
and I am simply a bird
    seemingly doing my thing
I am simply a bird

Perhaps that sound, that obvious blur
    mightn't have even been mine.
Ignoring the people just pointing at mine.
What is this love - this new land
This strange beast yawning
    divine or damned
Spiraling-

fawning us in - circular eyes
    around again - pleasant as privacy
sucking us in - seeming so gentle
    to last at all - keeping things even
and sucking us in - looking around
    around again - circular skies
a love a bird - sucking us in
    feeling around - feeling complacent
Where have you gone?

What is that, wind?
Speaking so gently,
    perhaps it was wind.
Floating the bird
    soothing the love
Speaking the season
    conceding the bird
Becoming the state
    yawning the blur.
I think it was her.

BYWATER

(have you) seen the red grit, paper, television, salting sound

bobbling through the everywhere

like a bubblethin grenade I've become

a sly, tried soundless sigh

numb, but it's okay

if you can distinguish an orange

from an orange, calm a catamaran

float an apple for not being an orange

and quiet the proper situation

sometimes you're a hero

sometimes you're a wave

of peppers

(you)

abandoned strand of Christmas lights

gracing the post-winter pre-spring

transitioning trees, graciously

gathering drinks

skulking through

skulking black bushes

becoming one with wrought iron

you said what you love

below the daymoon

lying in the dirt burning

sand

burning like citrus

I want to spend time with you.

"The daytime birds are still singing

and my face is so red."

but it's okay

NUMBING OF THE EAR, TIMELESSLY

disguised with inundation
hands of a mason's youngest son
across the crepuscular evening
thinking of you, soft as none

streetlights stilting, lighting sidewalks
(commonplace, not cobblestone)
shadows and headlights catching
twirly maplepods, competence, fastness

tattered greenmoon pearlights
as in, theatrics. smaller than innocence
a pistol: antique and unloaded
harmlessly painting a picture of none

still. "ain't comin' back."
malignant peace treatises
some remember, some forget

"NOTHING BAD IS GOING TO HAPPEN, AND I DON'T FEEL STRESSED AT ALL."

spread thin with millions of eaglets
eager and earnest and so young
with cheap tickets to hemingway
readings. shrapnel included and easily
sweetened faces on faces shouting "friction!"
"these days"
whoever to be cared for
followed, with care
confronted with being cared for
following with care
sweetened
how much honey required
for momentum to hover
the hump and cover the
speed bump? I only ask
because sunlight reminded.
seizures of sunlight
through breezes through branches sweetened
I think I can see your sorrow
and sweeten it
and in this, this is how we met
to have never heard of love
rather than gnawing through
expectations of life and life
I kind of how I like it I feel
as if I could with no memory of before
nothing ever ends/this never ends/because I'm so young