In nights that fall upon the Earth
Shadow-slinking, pouring down
Into a well, swirling,
Congregating in deep gusts,
Windswept snow fading to black
As it carries back up into the air.
Failed attempts to go backwards,
Trying to unfall.
Down on the verge of the sea
Dirt shifting soil drips like gasoline
Falling down in between.
Plants cannot gain hold.
The only life found there
Are the stubborn, war-worn molds
Trained by millions of years
Of fighting through time, stories untold,
Known only through their successors,
Who pass them along in a language
Created without the purpose
Of conscious inspection—
Voiceless whispers of existence.
When you can taste the wind,
Which pulls at your scarf,
Desperately trying to find sanctuary
In your lungs.
When you can hear the cold,
The world crisped by a glaze of ice
Posing, ready to be painted.
When you can feel the dark,
Smothering you, to keep you
Unaware of the bleak whitescape
You wander through.
When you can smell the spirit
Hidden in faraway houses,
The hot meals cooking and
Hearts burning somewhere not here.
When you can see home,
You can rest.
Black figures against the white.
Determined silhouettes in a night
Greyed and flattened by snowfall.
The shadows of snow on snow
More blue than the sky,
Seen by the orange light of
Sidewalk lamps standing alone
Searching for a path lost underneath
And the wind steals laughter
Out of the mouths of travelers
Huddled by a fire.
Time-slashing dread spider
A disease that chills the veins
But warms the body
Lulls it into sleep
The sun soothes
But limbs are frozen
Lead that cannot be woken
Your future before you and you want to grab it take it mold it
But it’s just out of reach:
a painting in a museum.
velvet rope separating you from fantasy on the wall
a prophecy under stage-light
but reaching out, touching it
You’ll smudge the masterpiece that could be, that is
in the World of your dreams.
Facts and effort pummel hopes,
Crush them under the too-heavy showers of spring
The season of new life ends itself. The spring is brittle
Homemade English toffee
Crumbling all over the table,
And there it is again
So easily back in the routine, in the ease
The smooth-going pattern,
Life like syrup, spreading across the plate
Soaking into everything,
soggy with sloth.
There’s something soothing about the silence of the night:
How it slides down the throat like oil air.
Some mild and immense liquid convergence of colors,
all cast in that high contrast hue of iron blue,
and with that same sweetmetal taste.
And like it, permeating the blood,
now present everywhere at once
in the blood, the body, the brain
Productivity is a foreign nation.
I’ve heard of it often,
I know what sights I should go see,
I have even visited a couple times.
But my flights there always seem
To get cancelled or delayed or rerouted
(and I’ll admit there was one time
I went to the wrong gate and missed
My flight altogether. Tears fast
As droplets on the windows during take-off)
But through it all I never doubted
That this place existed
Though it seemed strange
Most people only drove a few hours to get there
While I had three connections and 5 hours of layovers.
I’ve checked 2 bags and arrived with one.
Honestly, I don’t know if there’s much to be done.
I leave a part of me each place I go
And soon I fear there won’t be enough
Left of me to even remember
If I’ve lost something worth looking for.