It was, after all, a butterfly in the attic,

hiding from winter as a deciduous leaf,

a wilted and grounded speck tossed out two weeks before the air thawed enough

for others to join and remind the observer that

it is a joy to be so far away from grief

Written in hands with ink on them,
innocence smeared and double bent,
paper like amber without a hint; formless,
a relic of words extinct. Narratives plotted
more near the skin, meetings in corners
and out of wind. Fast in euphoria,
pressing in, all that is needed for
everything; think of them,
likely they think of them

Tell it disavowing wind,
the sum of raindrops flowers drink,
and then the way that hours think as
seconds race and daytimes shrink,
just as you to my shoulders cling,
then free me in a sudden sprint,
I side with you in everything and
leave you wounded parts to drink,
when fallen I push on the skin and
relish reddish mortal ink

At last, still embers signal the end of our conversation
and suffocate to slowly restore the semblance of the room.
The talk turns to imperatives, and thoughts of thoughts move
steadily out and into two spaces at times reserved for love. Mean-
while, the ash like the ancient city of our birth is formed and lost to wind

On the theme of nature and
everything else unnoticed, loss
of incoherence, rhetorically
coated loneliness. The moisture
on my ankles, or spiderwebs on time,
held there with the pleading, unspoken,
heard, declined. Wait until the sun set,
entirely in time and give it all a meaning,
the ending of a line

Looking at, instead of the
bearing moon in a dawning
night, faint traces of the past,
breaking soon over fault lines
in the form of vast constellations
detailing impressions of hair leading
to a figure that closely resembles
the sun as it reddens the blue sky,
or the time I read something to you
while hiding my head in a blanket and
you pulled the blanket down
and said something like stop

Early dark blue morning sky,
unending spaces, warmth and time,
colliding in a single room with backs
against a growing moon. As calls
return from far within, the ancients
breathing arching thing, still turning
with each earth-like spin, as rain falls
downward, up and in the early dark blue
morning sky, a better time for you and I.

Wind over water, weight over breath,
worn over paper, words unsuppressed.
Turn over tempest, done with our best,
wait for the heartbeat, under the chest.
Virtuous water, breaks from the pore,
shipwrecked, a body that clings to the shore.
Where does the wind over water call home?
Where does the wind to go find her call home?

Words slip away from the
acknowledged sunset silence,
off the sacred sleeping sigh and
the horizon filled with violet. And
the meaning of a thousand different
words will stand beside, the glowing
earth beneath grown kids, who rushing
closer, forward, find it

So they told the tale of stars,
of fasting moons and paling
scars, that speak of past the
ailing heart which saw some
thing and gave a start. A falling
sun, a glowing face, a do not look
and turn away, yet wanting both
all sense portrays, no need to write
for it will stay. The silhouetted sky
and day, to where she stands in
every way, awaits her forming hands
like clay while sculptures can not
turn away