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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I love you too
chronic,  6 am nosebleed . 

.

I can feel it 
I can feel it circling 
and breaking off 
layers scivved away 
by the cloying event horizon
by a tired pain in my chest

the weight 
of waiting

while the slumber of the river
calls.

could i be ophelia to you? 
left sun-bloated by the bedsheets?
death drawn through 
a pneumatic syringe and layers
of sickened foam
...

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by the flicker of my spark
by the cooling coals
beneath the hearth
by eyelids,
flittering then frozen still
where the snowflakes fall, today
where the Ash tomorrow will
our snuffed will lay to rest
a sediment of misspent youths
the rest will weigh fate's dander
o'er paths of long forgotten truths

brights buried
in moonlight
in alien sun in long-tread lost ways tr...

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