dreamt of being held,

three times, even when moved

i dreamt of little thief children

banging on our door in brooklyn

screaming to be let in

outside, i had left the door open,

and found you

and my grandparents

drenched in sun

on the secret hill behind our home

i remembered upstairs,

where a secret passageway had held our bones

not finished now, not yet finished

white and light
descending upwards,
to the place where colors turn translucent,
but still can
be seen

through an eyeglass we found between sidewalk gardens
trying to explain what we had seen to the mist,
he said nothing, but descended upon our heads to protect us from
journeying onward
to the place behind our eyelids,
where we only imagined in sleep

there had to be an intriguing perseverance,
we pleaded with the fog,
but it was silent and descended around our heads,
to stop us from proceeding.

a wretched being, we cried to each other,
how could we go on any longer?
we sat among the disappearing reeds inside the void of our planetary world.

is it not enough, to be alive and a curious one?
we cried to the smoke- it stood still for a moment but then came down on us.

we fell, put our heads to the damp floor and ceased speaking.

a tragedy, an undying homelessness,
to be underneath life, or above?
we whispered ancient psalms, but still,
the universe was quieted.

then---
a beating of drums.

"Arise! Arise!" The smoke, the fog, the mist called to us,
and dissipated throughout the atmosphere, shattered in a
thousand little diamonds.

an entire city, buzzing around us,
to be alive with tenacity and fervor, we thought,
would be a lovely interpretation within the body of life.

i inhaled, and the particles of air traveled-
through every organ, and i saw
every movement was preplanned,
for the atmosphere to decide.

on tuesday, there was a captive terror beneath our wings, where the earth was made and galaxies protected by
delicate feathers
fluttered with every slight wind of time,
ruffled by the breath of mysterious crystals that made habitat inside each silvered rachis.
a tickling of your neck, each filoplume slowly rises,
as oceans are being demanded into existence still

(1) please shade the wildflowers,
the wildflowers growing beneath the branches of our quieted wintertime

why this wasteful inclination
of circuses underwater,
of previous acquaintances with paint drizzing down faces?
to be humbled under the weight of something far from a drop of honey, in the wilderness

why are vocabularies and the arrangement of words becoming a lightness in this world; when knitted together, i had been a conduit of stitching together syllables and beats into a single sheet of shapes, as we spoke them into a new life////,,,llp;'''''

a draft

on the human inclination of immediate destruction:


the possibility of a reconciliation betwixt unsaid formulas
that we had prearranged to
have collected in our hands
a parallax between stars of the same hue,
a bright rood hangs
(above our)
heads with a tenacious language
caught in the space between our words


there exists a theory that dwindles with increasing exploratory knowledge,
diagrams of trees that we had
understood to be
a
realization before bonfires
that had eaten our sweaters (where he wouldn't stop calling my name, but would not answer once i listened)
though i notice the skies above your head,
still you weep, under the covers on your lover's bed

(a name, bringing knots)
closer and closer to discovering
the Mystery beneath our skin
eternality being thrust from our chests
a string, pulled back-- and given more string, to become further from it's end

a beginning, whispered into flame
sidewalks mourning the place where two previously walked
their footsteps permanently etched into cobblestone,
sunk down




where puddles form

overheard from underwater:


"there, no,

no songs on palms---
and,
no, no inclinations to be interpreted
i didn't

said

your heart, no---
it.... mine,

summertime;

it was cold, no


shouldn't be fr--

you could bre-


(dilute)

i told you, a song between our eyes were,
a fr--

can't.

come over love,

my only r--

to c,
to share f.,
to contr. in. one mind,
an. understanding, days.
a r- u.w, to ---- home.
if you could recall, the rain coming,
you could,

rest---
a
-ea-e

a q-i---
p;;;;

tell your m-r
i am g-


to your wishes,"

she said.

can a single mountaintop be annotated? but still, a shakingly horrible feeling is perpetually becoming melted between two landscapes, where a lion and a harpsichord sleep in each others arms. however, under crystalline towers (i noted), a love was born through a recently invented form of breathing; an inhale, the beckoning of a lover; an exhale, the human tendency for aggressive destruction.