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May 2013


Down the abyss, storming, over rocks, rushing,
towards the waves crushing the cliff
with the force of a thousand armies:
I gaze from otherwhere.

I contemplated a man from Paris once, sitting,
head between hands on knees, sobbing,
on a metal chair by the international terminal:
I orchestrate from everywhere.

Across cheeks, blushing, over eyes, wandering,
towards the dreams palpitating against reality
with the force of a thousand prophets:
I vivify from nowhere.

I contemplated a woman from St Louis once, sitting,
eating a slice of pumpkin pie, laughing,
on a Davenport in the lounge of her friend:
I dance from evermore.

The Hollows

Here, the uneasy nothingness of fingers intertwined,
there, the heavy evaporation of lips locked,
always the swinging oblivion of thoughts dreamed,
forever the towering ravage of feelings seduced —
surrounded by lightning and leaves spinning out of reach
we would never find cover if we started running.
Here, the dripping raindrops bursting into our blinded eyes
there, the haunting harmony of washed out worlds —
we have always been: we will never be.


They move lightly across the desert plane.
They have small clouds of sand dancing underneath their wings like carefree children
and ludic dust whirling in sunbeams around them.

Here, the good outweighs the bad tenfold,
rainbows kept in drops of water carried on their feathers
like dots of happiness layered over an unsuspecting embrace.

They move lightly across the desert plane.
They whisper their songs as if outsiders eavesdropping would take them away
and they sing them proudly into each other’s ears.

Here, the good outweighs the bad tenfold,
like sunbeams shining through clouds into drops of water
when they move lightly across the desert plane.

Stone Skipping

What was, now isn’t — what will be, not yet.
The taste of perishing cold on your lips and nothing
else. Uncomfortable comforting
laughter at the surrealism of ourselves.
This is too… not close enough.
I’m looking at the future through breathed upon glass,
a shadow on the other side of this
liminal space of slivered possibilities.
Perhaps in a hundred sunsets the glass will be clear
and this side the faded memory we’d like it to be.