LVII.

as though there were words —
what is the point
of this   ?

i'm watching smoke pile high
i'm feeling footsteps of song beneath my bed
i'm twisting my sore stomach
i'm eyeing the horizon
with glasses that don't work

when      you      are     alone

in    your    glowing    apartment

what           is              on             your              mind

i want nothing more
than to be with you

one a.m. on the hardwood floor.
a cup of cold water
and tales of dreams.
why did i tell mine
about the lights on the black bay
about the new york window

"why don't you say what's on your mind?"

why don't i jump through glass?
what hope is there
to come away without blood?

no sleep for us these nights.

and what is on my mind? —

you;

since the thunder in my being
two years ago —
for suddenly
there you were;

the colors of the room, the texture of the chairs, the harbor in the sun, the sharpness of breath, i remember it all.

pacing halls —

wild lights and lungs full of song;

you, nine months of you
beautiful you, taken in trails of thought
to the camper in the woods;

jetstreaked skies —

god, please, an answer. please.
a shredded heart is still one —

don't let me drown —

may thirteenth, two thousand and seventeen.
free to love, once and for all.

you, at the lonely shores,
sure as the day;

long hours at coffee shops
scattered words and journal sketches
john king and the church at night

a brand new colony.
concrete and courtyards
an empty house
a brand new colony;



then months

spring

white dogwoods

a net of lights

you were far



swept away to the midnight sun
caught in a memory
trailing along to the arctic circle;

tulips pass, but i only see the sand
the crashing tide and your magnolia flashing
i stand by the tram doors
i float on your surfboard

i stretch an arm into the island wind
i laugh and melt into pounding song
i let my hair dry in the sun
full of salt

that stellar dust
the universe's ribcage above us
we walk and there's the dream
spilling from your lips, splitting my mind

the tent at night

the shift of shoulders

"you okay?"

breathing stills,
you sleep,
and your salt hair brushes mine.

it's you;

you, love, swimming in my mind
as we dance through colors in the mall
as we spin through the streets
as we race up the stairs
as we sail along the turnpike
what does it mean?

did i have to see michigan?
did you have to find the endless weekend?
did i have to speak the dream?

there's no need for glass wounds
if you open the door; —