My only love is on the moon,
that which evades my heart’s harpoon.
In nimble blossoming she wanes in sight
until in nostalgia’s might
she tills out her love in full mooned flight.
Whether I spy her a winking
Or her sorrows’ amissing, turning her back from emotions
On that moon my true love spies,
On that moon my true love never dies.
we live in a city of mirrors, but mirrors of solid flesh
but also of translucence.
dust drenched but soaked sublime
urbanity couldn’t be more inaccessible
to the sane
but also to the insanity of surrendered serenity.
privacy of heart but intimacy of mind
and extroversion of voice
trust nothing of what you see
and become the author of the choreographed
comings and goings of the figures around
measured by inches or boroughs.
humble nature lives from afar,
but come close to it
and see the quivering of a tree
and the static trembling of your reflection cast upon a lake
but delight in how inconsequential clarity is
how it does not exist, almost,
and how this world swallows you instead of spitting you out.
by corners creased forgotten by a sea of wordless wrinkles,
dim light suggests only the mood of two pm.
it has been a year and some change,
it’s silly to use the word change
when movement is what i feel lately, never change.
i anticipated grief
to properly perform my part
in the drama that was her cancer
so that this play would extend or reach its perfected end
so that it would cease into the unconscious,
the melting pot of fiction’s oblivion.
to cry for a hypothetical was a possibility to snare reality’s nightmare.
to cry over her corpse, my lungs heaving challenges to her still ones, was a fundamental break in the script
it was the break in the fourth wall
where i could not will myself to play hope.
terror of disappearance and frozen by appearance,
the leanings of tomorrow
that could be ours
under gravity’s thumb.
threadbare, stand trees
in droopy eyed mutterings
bracing the gradual, leaf measured alarm
eye replaces the voids with
whilst the heart remembers what was whole.