snow

Once, standing under white sails, a hush all around as truthful as snow. Desire to be shelter, to be warm around and 'round again. Quiet, so quiet I can hear your cold mouth on mine, hush now. Let me get you home.

List

Two or three things come after longing. A path I didn’t know before. The trees here throw off their leaves, stand naked, arterial. Truth is in the blood. Nothing you could solve by showing up. Lay down with false images, wake up with pillows wreckage on the floor, bottom lip cracked. Apathy of sky begets more sky. Itch of dry skin, dry as wood dust now, all your hands forgotten, well fled. A few more things. Things to list. Tomorrow.

The River

River at the bend, sluggish, crisps into glass. Here and there you stood brittle, the city reaching out to the water behind you. There are photos somewhere else, each moment clear as gasp, stood in the way of your mouth, the burning nuzzle. How small things, smaller than memory, come back like shrapnel. Make plans. The opposite of syncopation, something wrung from blankets and new contortions. It’s a thin want. But they’re waiting for it, spilt sweet.