sorry that was just me, you see
it’s hard to control the exhalations
but once dry I’ll try to spill a
story that seems to go somewhere
while tunneling beneath the foundations
I don’t want to blame this ancient
circuitry or curriculum
but the mean of the few years I’ve
managed can feel a bit mean
and, I mean, I don’t want this mean
to be my main anymore but
I must make marks and some mean
folks may escape though meaning well and take
their crack at rosy meaning until morning
Tag: morning
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To go to bed and churn through the night folded
and rent by the sharp lines of half-boiling
dreams as we try our best to imagine
we can forget what we might have had to
make yesterday once the anger of themorning has faded and our clothes are once
again dry though who would have bet against
the successful failure of the unabridged
chronicles of that self-made hermit whosehedge maze was never real but the feeling
of being in it turning right or left
faster then much slower has never leftno matter which season finds us deciding
once and evermore to learn how to knit
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sometimes there’s nothing human you can do
the white sky mo(u)rning a single bird across
the courtyard bricks for a new pyramidso where can you go how can you
think after they refuse to be
born itwon’t help
steer this weary ox fromthe prized flowers won’t re
construct the squirrel’s bones
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what hope in this pen and an ink
nearly invisible
earlier the morning sun on
the trees made me think of
large mammals and their humid scent
in the sun in the grass
the countable galaxies of
bright dew and now the chair
makes sarcastic music of my
musing but the night is
still and so wide without a moon
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the secret decoder ring she was buried in the meadow where she first was offered the crown and its dangerously circuitous instruction manual and the peculiar delicacies that only appear once the night is nearly gone to birdsong
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In the morning you can reach out and see on the breeze in the mind the damp stone tightening straps keep him in place the pain in his cell the confession conversion meaningless at this point or the life by the sea rough stone grey the children I pushed through and lined up in the earth and the cliffs so beautiful lonely one time one town on the frontier barely built I can still smell new cut wood that simple home sun creeping through seams in the wall another sunny place warm weather sweet breeze always fetching writing down his many thoughts the wine was good
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early morning planning wind scurries waiting for coffee to kick the air to clear on the lookout for the best conjugations the cut is healing nicely as violets and others I can’t name invade the running commentary in moments of quiet the thought makes it all crumble so we remain vigilant it takes years to articulate at least that’s what it says on the business card we hand out a little too freely though after all why not what was buried looks quite different when they show up with the picks and shovels and yes I hear it too the whole house about to speak some long-abandoned language
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too late to give up the first sign of bruising in the morning sky
other animals 