the first morning of August

the first morning of August
was already dark; another
season slips out of hand.
the trees settle in to
shake off their leaves.
gold for the fire waiting
in the vestibule while
sparks of memory gather



.

lie still

lie still and allow the sun to shine.
give the wind its rest, all the directions will wait.
breathe now belly to belly with the swell
of the dirt and grass.
let me count
the hairs falling down the small of your back
with forgetful lips always starting over 



. 

path

an exit wound at ten thousand
frames a second. the playback of one
cell exploding, a flower of
mitochondria and DNA blooming
through the coarse of years.
a body persists in its habits


the shade of your words and the slippery
cool of your tongue easily ignited.
fluorine and ground glass, impossible
reagents to hold what is left. Cindered,
there is less of me than remembered.


I hollow my bones into a semblance of flight.
Cross my fingers, cross my path, bridge any
measure of the distance between desires.
the stars point in every direction at once
how can you pretend they guide anyone?



.

consumed

we lower ourselves into
our consumption. the blood
of time spills from drunk
mouths. the easy words
meaningless in their abundance
until tongues grow knives
and cull the weak. lead me
by the handles of desire
to know the death that is offered,
the blinding of self in an animal
of limitless color 



.