there was a fixed loneliness in the visual field under the state of the moon. there was the frowning sliver of distance increasing. there was the life and death of the poem and, if you believe in this, the poem's afterlife, and if you don't, the poem can haunt you. others say better of the river and that leaves here the line, the leaning in, tending eyes in springlight and splashlight, wordless missive from a waterbody splitting into sweetness, spitting what hasn't happened yet. yes, we have a lot of thinking between us.
i mean feeling
and feeling can ride on speaking and beloveds this speech is warm so when late april's winter joke cools my fingers i wrap them around the vocals to draw heat. i want to believe in circular prediction. i want to leave my socks heart-shape-piled on the floor and walk the whole way barefoot. i want to see you in the green glow. i have been sitting quietly with my hands tucked under my thighs as though the middlespace is this simple. nothing knotted voids complexity and why should it, why should a voice change but not a heart, why shouldn't an echo introduce more echoes, why shouldn't there be more gray area kissing at various angles. these base-of-skull piano keys go plunk plunk plunk and this cajón i call my center keeps a fuller beat with helping hands. sound's possible structure has us bad, don't you think?
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