Midnight, plus. There is brief oil in the lamp.
When it goes, we will see what flames may
burn from our spirits.
We devoted a day to sitting cross legged on the docks,
braiding our own meandering manes.
The breeze became our breath, the lake our limbs.
Our skin deepened with the sun to greet the dusk.
Do not think of tomorrow,
but think of tomorrow.
The windows are aged in dirt, it is the Earth,
Yet the skies may be imagined wholly
through any small fissure peered:
Her waves came from intrinsic, aporetic wonder--
“It is what you do, and do what you don’t,”
It is midnight, plus. There is brief oil in the lamp. When it goes,
I will see what flames may burn from my spirits.
Does the humidity wedge you to the air today? Do you shed your skin, or does it migrate to dirt?
Has your pup licked your hand of late, his intertwined salivas cooling your skin as they release
each other’s limbs to ascend the vast air surrounds you?”
“And if I seek faint trumpets in the wind
Over vast grass valleys and hills,
Would you listen to hear?”
“And if what I’d like to bring back to you
Would you reach to feel?”