Echoes

15/30 - 2

The pendulum moon is swaying across the sky

Transitional days of transitional years, slipping in between
thens and nows

Shedding the stale
like winter coats

Nurturing the new,
feeling the hibernating stir

Everything in bloom
everything

relax
sleep
you look well enough to me
take this
sleep

another day is piling itself into my attic
there are boxes of them spilling out now
a thin layer of dust settling on all things

breathe

movement feels like a chore
there is a dull ache beneath my ribs,
reaching for something

breathe

whispers of static pulsing in my head
a loud quiet pushing things out of place
the ancient familiarity of the edgeless

where all things come from
written into existence in golden ink
on the back of a napkin in a smoky dive bar

where all things go, steady and slow
a small leaky faucet,
just an audience leaving its show.

sleep

13/30 - 2

It is so overwhelming and strange to think of every person you see on the streets, every person in the world, as being as complex and as warring, inside, as you are

and how within their bodies their vital organs are whirring and marching on, tensed muscles wrapped around bone, immune systems fighting things that the host isn’t even aware of yet, veins forking like lightning from fingertips to toes,

the delicate, smooth bone housing the universe of mind, expanding and contracting in the rhythm of conversation,

not looking for anything in particular, reflecting what they know, shuffling through the days as mirrors,

as islands.

12/30 - 2

You make me want to say “I love you” until the phrase becomes thread-bare, tattered and frayed,
starts to sound foreign,
and we have to invent new words and phrases to fill its space

Stitching together letter after letter,
offering them to the steadily growing space of it all,
placing them at its feet like an altar,
until we’re creating new languages,
sacrificing movements or sound, colors and light,

whatever it takes, whatever it takes

Creativity grasping at the infinite, slowly learning the interconnectedness of things, slowly, slowly,

until it’s just you and I

and silence.

11/30 - 2

she sits on the counter like a child on the edge of a dock, shoeless, grazing water with toes

every window open, the wind flowing noiselessly in small bursts

preparing dinner, news anchors barking in the other room, the knife whispering slices into the tomato

tropical storms and air raids, it appears the sky really is falling, she says

the cat slinks through-around my legs, the chicken sizzles quietly on the stove, i dissect more vegetables, slowly

umbrella and bombshelter salesmen must be happy, i reply

melting ice shifts in the glass next to me, a church bell tolls on the hour, a young couple walks, hand in hand, i think of a russian ballroom

people should kiss at least twice as much as they talk!
some people would be kissing for an eternity then!

a half finished book on the coffee table, a storm on the horizon, a three-quarters finished day, an air raid

well that wouldn’t be so bad, eh?
uh huh, can you get the plates, it’s time to eat

10/30 - 2

Spring is fever dreaming, tossing and turning,

it feels like being deep underwater, so far down that the dark makes it hard to think, everything floats, as light as memory,

i thought we were driving somewhere, that it was night, that the world was moving beneath us,

the way your wrists feel remind me of tealight candles, i dont think i’ve ever told you that,

a small group of freckles make a star on your chest, maybe it means something but it’s hard to think, the world is moving though, slowly, i’m sure of it,

maybe being underwater reminds them of their mothers, amniotic seas of quiet wombs, maybe breaching the surface feels like drowning in a way,

slowly, i’m sure, where was it that we were going, it’s almost morning now,

hold on,
i’m remembering something

9/30 - 2

I’ve stopped trying to strain meaning from streaks of rain down windows

i think i’ve been wrong about every single thing i’ve ever known

Trying to find radio stations in the middle of nowhere

these things happen

Sifting through sand, long strands falling through fingers, looking for sugar

the universe is a very busy place

The quiet blips and static of a vinyl record spinning endlessly when the music has stopped

yeah?

yeah.

8/30 - 2

the way you speak
is a key turning
some hidden door
inside of me

i do not know when it was locked,
only that it will not be the same.

7/30 - 2

have I ever told you that Colorado is the backyard that I always wanted as a kid?

and how I found and lost something in the smog-coughing fits of Los Angeles, along side the static and car horns of New York, right next to the backcountry-Zen lunatics of Tennessee,

and how the night sky in Texas is so damn wide, a field of stars in bloom, every night, they speak in bursts,

and how there’s something about Virginia, where the trees all stand like everyone is watching, holding their breath,

but how staying in one place for too long feels like being buried to me, about the nameless silence that hovers between all things and makes it hard to sleep?

well, i’ve been meaning to tell you, i have.

6/30 - 2

i want to know you by how the dress moves over your hips
and the words waltz across your lips,

how even the ones you’re not saying,
sing,

the curve of your back and rise and fall of your syntax.

somedays, my fingertips were made only for your collarbones,
gliding through page after page of you,

somedays, i want to make a mess of your books, rearrange your shelves, leave notes and bite marks,

flowers pressed in between, every petal is a memory, every center is another year,

things fade, but these libraries grow, and grow,
everyday, we’re adding a little bit more.

5/30 - 2

Some days, we wake as thunderstorms, all hungering fury and static

Some days, we are lemonade on the front porch

Or a brick thrown into a pond

Alcohol and cigarettes leave us as abandoned river beds, upturned, mouths praying for rain

Some days, are like pulled teeth

Others, simply books, looking for a shelf.

4/30 - 2

i wonder what babies know that make them cry so much, she says

some florists only sell to cemeteries and wedding parties, i reply

this is how our conversations go - inbetween, it is quiet enough to hear glossy spiders spin webs in the corners, dew collecting on finely sharpened blades of grass

there’s hidden meaning here, and in the gum that’s stuck to the side of gas pumps,

but most just pass over it, except maybe babies, they wake up in the middle of the night all the time, looking,

the whispering hum of bees outside the window, a train trembling on rusting rails in the distance,

there are two people holding hands, the trees don’t mind, a middle aged woman is arranging a dozen freshly cut roses, a baby sleeps.

3/30 - 2

we laid there in the grass,
intertwined,
shoes kicked off,

for so long that we started to grow into one another,
started to grow into the ground,
we slept while the seasons passed,

people mistook us for roots,
for old houses,
for mountains

our dreams filled the air around us,
electric to the touch,
we slept,

while time strained,
and seasons passed,

until the power-plants in our hearts roared to life,
the factories of our lungs, exhaling big breaths,
stirring, our fingertips and toes alive and curious,

and we rose, together,
once more.

2/30 - 2

The ghosts wake at dusk, while the night reaches into the world, tucking the sun away, hushing the birds

I hear them shuffling about, like grandpa’s or sleepy children, there’s a difference there but it’s too subtle to name

They speak in low mumbles, not remembering much of anything, sometimes only where they had just been,

Bodies hold memories, jars that are made for collecting, theirs had just been dropped is all, these things happen, spilled into the ground, grew into things on their own, this is how the trees know so much

Even still, we spoke and sat at the table, I taught them chess and jokes, every night I had to reteach them, we drank hot tea and laughed quietly

They give themselves a different name every night, I ask them what it’s like, they speak of being nameless, of shuffling about, but that’s not what I meant, I listen anyway

They say, you can walk slowly when you don’t have anywhere to be, there is an otherworldly tiredness inbetween their words, I’ve felt it before,

when dawn comes, the house is filled with pristine silence, I wonder how much they’ll remember, the tea sits quietly, gone cold.

1/30 - 2

We didn’t fall in love,

we stood in it,
bathed in it,
watched it rise up past our knees,
brushing the tops of our shoulders,

this golden light,
cascading upward over trees and mountains alike

everything was so soft,
it seemed to float,

burying ourselves into one another,
every single breath speaking,

this is how easy the world can move,

can shift, stretch and settle in our palms.