[opening the lid on dreams]

opening the lid on dreams,
anti-light pours in.

We shake ourselves out
as if dragged down a steep flight of stairs,
as if undoing the work of blue/black waves.

We shake ourselves again
into our legs, into our eyes.

In sleep, light is negative. The blinds
bleed a blue/black/green friendly
ooze. Your arms glow, even
if you’re missing some fingers.

It’ll be made of moving parts:
tops and floaters and stars
into and around your hand,
a phantom pillow attached to your face.

But slowly, you move, slowly so you can’t
remember yourself, or
as if your real body can’t let you
reach the door, can’t let you
off the ground, can’t let you see
if the sirens are for your friend.

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sea salt and sage

It is the age of creaks. settles
along steady notes of an anniversary clock.
Counting, marking, counting
white walls shift unquietly
into colder, colder vents.

Metal bangs in the shafts.
Rectangles opening a slight angle.
Cranky, this little house, tapping. Groans
while we rest our heads and dream of moving parts;
passing stores, hurdling fences and
learning the best words to talk.

it gears its own loneliness out of sight.
pledges its beams out of wedlock
and out of darkest corners
shift shadows.

I remember it is nothing.
The road echoes in timbres,
tongues by windowpanes,
whispers behind doors.

night, house and rain

Listen,
there is another perfect little Eden
calling for you.

Let it bring you and your shoulders
home.

Home;

white lace blots wet pavement,
gasoline rainbows and yellow reflections.
Nostalgic, almost
like overheating in bed.
I am sure the clouds appreciate this song.

It is stale at this point.

I watch the clock face
deepen its numbers.
All the desk is red in its shadow.

Everything else is white
or black.

It reminds me of a dream I had,
a man all white
in a room all black
hunched, sad, and turned away.
It frightened me almost awake when I reached for him.

I can barely hear the rain when I open my eyes.

And this
is night.

Goodnight,
little Eden.

my cat and the moon

I cannot find my cat
in the moon.
Once she sees the great white
behind my window,
I lose her black eyes.

The stars shake from her whiskers.
And her throat wishes she could howl
like coyotes do. Like humans bellow
when something is stolen.

To her, we are not the moon.
To us, the moon is not a star.
It comes, sometimes,
when not in the rain
and tickles the tide.

She shakes in her sleep,
and sighs, like only moon keepers do,

Until at last, she turns her gaze
and decides to eat.

for short;

And
the window
smells of rain,
like
the sand
in my hair.

(Goodnight,
dear Moon!

I will see
you
next time I
awake
; )

familiar

Much like
White my face in the front of a spoon,
the window does not hide
White these familiar gray skies.
It’s a languid night;
White I cannot hear the bugs
except for some leftover static
White of a blood-sucking fly
in an ellipsoid
White upside-down kitchen.

Rain Dance

Yesterday we ran
into the rain

Just after the sun slipped
from us to light another part of the world.

Early December night
and Christmas lights
stick to my pants and your shirt

Little globes refracting lamps
like little earths
line the trees and our hair.

Finally the sky was darker than your eyes
which have crystals in them
once again
You could have been brighter than
even the morning sun.

stargazing

Stars move slow-
ly netting
a vacant sky
diminishing moon
and lights litter
dew caught round
dark grass,
smell of ocean
and almost still
but not winter
how ears buzz
in absence of noise,
sounds of life
rose rushed to sleep
soon in
Earth’s palms
resting with
curved backs but
not our heads
Bright and calm-
ly spin with
gracious stars

storm

What is it in the warm dark
that the wind must flag me down?
Dripping at the branchless mark
skittish limbs drag on wet ground
all because your voice was hot
my ears ring with shadow sounds,
meshing, they refuse to rot,
the water’s too clear to drown;
‘Til now I have never seen
the sky like grit or as brown
for plastered leaves could not preen
the sky apart from its noun.

little knots

Face forward, leaning in
her eyes said
tell me all the things
you love about me,
but slowly and over time
because that’s what love is
Or
at least that’s what I caught
from the breeze who
braided my hair into
little knots and
shook the leaves for me,
hush; be calm, girl
for
truth is revealed
slowly and over time
while you wait in it.
Then I asked some branches
with ombre leaves if they
would hold their color for me?
See
for a little while
I will hold what I have
with all I have left, for you,
in these lovely shades
curling and fluttering
but next week you may find
gray