origami

these words
we fold into ourselves

from the broad sheet of all possible words.

these words
we unfold at night

on a tatami mat of  breath.

behind fragile
walls we fold
into each other.

Here.  Listen.

a thousand paper cranes

take flight -

.

fragments

 

listen, she says:

this is important.

there is no border between the countries

of lost and found.

what gets sandwiched

between two plates of glass

*

he says from now on i’ll only do

the things that could kill me:  not

the things that hurt.

it’s a form of cowardice.

*

a syringe of tongues

driving each hypodermic word

*

it all goes down

like whiskey in a cyclone

the virga in the eye

*

this is a kind of aphasia:

that momentary silent

blinking self-assessment which follows

the soft collisions

of small children

untitled

in the time between sleeping and waking, they talk. she sends him many small messages. the text is white on the small black screen. she sends photographs. he is online. they are connected. they talk. their voices are warm as breath. they touch with their candle eyes. they see with their bloodshot hands.


he wonders if this time is more real than the time of being awake. it is her voice in his ear. it is the heat where their skin joins. it is each hair of her head separate and distinct, its own small scent growing into his awareness. if he doesn't try, he can slip into this time and linger there. it is a time without ticks or taps. it is a time without befores or afters. he wonders if she will let him.

he tries not to try.


when he sleeps, he dreams of them. he dreams knowing that he is dreaming. in his dreams he is awake. sometimes he dreams he watches her sleep and wonders what she dreams. in his dreams he asks her sleeping form many questions and he tells her many secrets. he smiles and reaches out a hand to touch her. in his hands she is a fish, silver and quick like light.


he remembers that in the old words, quick means alive. the quick and the dead. cut to the quick. he feels a quickening. he is breathing deep, and quick.


when he is awake he dreams of the time between sleeping and waking. he thinks of sleeping and dreaming.


he is stretched. he is transparent with the stretching. he is running. he is running and not stopping. he knows where he is running. he knows why he runs. he knows who he is... he is gulping hot desert breaths. he is astonished by the length of days.


he does not exhale.

the correspondence

between letters
he fingers the tiny ridges
traces the small depressions
of each postmark on the buff envelopes

inside:

"to..."
"from..."
"yours..."
"with / in
/
i am..."



between letters
he sees small gaps
notes the matted fibres
the warp and weft of creamy paper

marked:

"when..."
"for..."
"if..."
"but / how
/
may we..."



between letters
he reads other, older missives
addressed "to whom... and "it has.. .."
softly tugs the knotted red ribbon packages


hefts their welcome weight



they fuck with their eyes open like books
amid cries of "author! Author!.."

this ancient song

, br


this ancient song

made new.

your hands

make birdshadows

beat against a wall.


our pavilion

its silks and streamers

flutter in the chill

breeze of after - noon

await the still


- pause -


the space between

the indrawn breath of day

the slow sigh of night


a moment in time
a moment away
a moment


.now.


your hands

make birdshadows

beat against a wall