moments

Now we’re darker shades, now. Found nothing down there just mire and salted wonder. Sometimes light washed. The moments. We used to think there was so little time. Now less. Clocks fall from walls, resigned. No time. My hand falls, back where it started. We lose time, it loses us, runs rough shod loose electric cable in the small room, rushes back swallowing all we’ve known, things we licked raw, slow architectures of limbs and hands, whole mornings. Collapses the plans, the ever and ever, tangled questions of bed sheets, dirty dishes, the clean, the mornings unchewed. The thread unravels. We’re in other rooms, the birds outside sound the same. You will see my mouth along the seawall, a moment, a stranger’s mouth.

Fill

Morning clear as alcohol on the skin, thin blue air. There’s no room but I am still here. Photos in these rooms fall like ashes. The heat that simmers on even after they’ve all gone home. See, we are limber when we’re wrong. The leaves with their weak smiles wish they knew what to say. The days are getting shorter, the waves down by the bay all pulling back. The lifeguards further away now, lost in their chairs, the day behind them, waits to get its fill.

things in the mirror

Late night in the playground, the upside down metronome of swings, our faces wet with stars. Listen close, the slow burning hum of motion, our hurtling. How we learn movements. Some motions irrevocable, round as stones. Above the dark hangs ellipses, a bird whispers over looking for treetops, our hands hanging apart in the air sleepy and dry. This is an accident.

He runs in all directions at once. Suppose we don’t try. The slow giving up. The fridge empty. Again. I am a small thing in a small room now. Some things look better burning. Air ceases being air. Dust motes hang amber, tired. He always had a theory for things, but these are the sommersaults. A german word, maybe, for tumbling. From the Latin for leaving. The decompression of rooms. Nature loves a vacuum. Loves a gap in the floor. A small thing now.