swallow

Friends mostly from here on out.

confessions shiver out faintly
a secret flickers in a mouth

sobbing a pained utterance
it's the words under a canopy so

i am like the beginning
of a laugh-

if you were wondering
i will shut everyone up so you can talk.

I remember hearing the jet fuel being dumped and looking up at the big silver animal in the sky. The taste of a lit cigarette and lukewarm instant coffee, familiar and a great distaste to my freshly brushed teeth and tongue. Closing one eye as the sun glared back, As though I had winked specifically at it. The thoughts I had that morning: "Everything will be the same forever" but nothing has been the same since that day.

She is a tight white neck

Slandering the weather the word the clear presence
The word slandering as a fact
Slandering this dim light, living on the extra cost like a passion

She is great scott alarmed by his own name

Almost forgetting the light between the years
Warning that it often appears that she believes in
Slandering the rhetoric in a gesture, as natural as the abilities
Of time to open

She is the nationwide drive

Slandering the past in a dress, alarming
Slandering, practically burning

At least she is actual.

Loving is wooden
Loving is a word for dense dark work

Loving is a resurrection
Loving is the concrete, hardly conscious

Loving is a path a gaze a word

Loving is hearing blood
Loving is verse

Loving is all facets and the most likely shelter

in the rain on the hood of your car
I sleep

and my surface
is what you go back and forth for

with soaking wet hands
you cover my body

the hatchet is my umbrella
they explain to me

and I turn it sideways

barely able to keep my head up

blink
blink

tuck it in

go to sleep.

I have some glue it
is on the block and
still the book is too
loose

the weight of
some thin flax on
the textblock is very
important

I will need 2 pieces
the book will be handled

I can take a
pencilline from 2 leaves
and work in the first

I've just folded the
corners one time in
it's special stone underlay.

good type
knows that only accidentally
an aesthetic is defined as
a purely technical and controlling
space and therefore should be defined
as "to be read easily"

there is much more
than this; much more than this
it is the enjoyment of such
good type

"Secrets" is a daily word
Yet does not exist --
Muffled -- it remits surmise --
Murmured -- it has ceased --
Dungeoned in the Human Breast
Doubtless secrets lie --
But that Grate inviolate --
Goes nor comes away
Nothing with a Tongue or Ear --
Secrets stapled there
Will emerge but once -- and dumb --
To the Sepulchre --

Emily Dickinson

meet me in the in between.
or the after.

something made me throw my head down hard on a pillow and smile.

I had my knee up on the counter, trying to reach my paint brush between the cabinet and the window. I started crying.
It had been raining for days and the walls weren't drying.
Small flies were coming in through the laundry room and sticking themselves to base boards. I kept painting over them.
The house was cold.

Once, after the cord broke brittle twins apart
there was a fold of paper sitting along the wet
favor of atomised green

it drifted onto the tongue of a cat
who was sitting for them; on a blanket

he showed them to a picnic tree
under a circular valet
where a circus of moods played on tilted drums
skins sang "lucky small tree"
and drank they nettles for lunch time

a house in a tub of sand
was appropriate in its clay tone
so they struck a keyhole through it with twigs

after the afternoon at pink paw hill
they fit a winding ring on a square finger
and then were rained on a little

the master clock said:
"a mouse went clamoring down my face"
a clue that there was more yonder to consider


the sitting cat knit up rags on his blanket
he was happy

laid the bird in a box
a leaf case

and threw it into
the feathered seas white slapping hands

for several years it washed in the pocket
on a heavy cycle

cleanly taking the present
so far it came almost nearby again

we're watching closely

the whole earth is a wing
folding questions inwards

these are the hands I work with
these are my living
or my fund

this whole family is pregnant
redefining a knock out or up
don't take it lightly
it's a summer anniversary

here's right where we are
and there's cake
developing

a bed, Queen of the oaks
naturally
because life's good
simpler

trying like the tree over there
to get down and root
folding in or sinking in
with a hopeful germination

its a stretch
for some curving rotations
to twist plaits from slender limbs
to make knots that drink rain to remains

the longing for a wet spot to curl in curved length
the high grass is a rolling beige hill
of blonde on blonde
leaving and returning in an edgy current of wind

as a tree eases in on a crease
the bended knee of the elm conceives
stretched out in the swirls of white on blue
waving arms above to keep perspective

blowing in the blonde
motioning in the blue

two women on t.v.
at a country club breakfast
discuss metabolism
as if it were something
we actually talk about.

"Your metabolism slows down in your thirties"

two women in tennis skirts
having brunch without
sweat
suggesting vitamins

they had sweaters!
tied around their necks!

in investigating the inside of a fable
all of its evil took a marvelous
and fortunate direction

what kind of work the plentiful first
night of us was for;
peacefully seeing a foot
grating the dirt

that a time when silence
was a sense
of methodical strokes
was here, forming in a chair

we were, by and by,
an indication;
we announced;
a discovery

falling into
a door with automatic movement
and it went to and fro, my friend
so we held grass very close
under covers of morning glory
and the rise of our placement
within the coffee
were same hours
as compared to possibility

we must have understood
the darkness of the water
"you who are you are also me"
I said, But I cut it.
"well, aren't you".

we are a small sum of porridge
a microscopic sum of seed
of grass that became tall and white
too much too tall for all the birds
it was difficult and not like this
it is difficult
the sand in the way of growing flowers
and how it can make so much impossible
or longer-lasting
and we would be smaller or even microscopic
in a swarm
we would have heard it
come more near us
time
come nearer