we touched the sky

with suffered silos:

feigned gates on which my love might hang 

scabbed wreaths creaking in idle winds

peppered, long-feln

to keep the flies off 

to keep some facsimile of youth intact

another field-dressed carcass

only good for sausage

by the watershed.

ground is a funny word, isn't it? 

rough-hewn earths and

torn up turfs and

a finer...

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a weighty fog

like tinned milk 

sweetly opaque 

hiding the feathers and tears

traces of a an empty place called

heaven.

these beads rest on hats

press down on weary brows and

weave between the fibres

of gloves

of family 

such a slippery thing, this life. 

like a rain you can't catch on your tongue 

but the taste weaves between your

thoughtful mol...

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It's a concentration of atoms, that in the air converse with one another.

And then those bits become molecules. 
They create my table.
My computer.
And in some ways, my ability to type and write and eat ramen at the last hour of the night.

And they make

That smokey woody herbal floating aroma that reminds me of the witchcraft shop down the street of where we used to live.

...

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