Month: May 2026

it's May but all hot soup hot tea hot sweater vest, trick of light increasing blue of eye, blue of stone, blue balloon of wandering around, blue cluster leftover from another holy Wednesday, make you a medicine bulb with true fingers and sure, some ritual should cross over, the blue that comes after plus those specific places the color moves in your face, blue spilling out or over making words tumble around stuck gears, oil's blue reserve ribboning through the unlikely machine tasked with designing alternative couplings. all the outliers have their heads together now, a fist full of unripe dandelions with flower crown dreams. what we do the most is sway.
                                      i am suspicious of enduring forms
                                                                              but fond of clustering. yes, i accept all forms of devastation and promise to feel them right through the soles of my feet, i keep loose roots just for these occasions. i keep my touch careful but sure, knots notwithstanding. if we've ever met i've already imagined us rolling across the floor toward each other. tell me the mistakes so i can chew them up, if that will mean the static resumes a viable tone, if that can postpone the after. hoya's told me not to photograph her, it stunts the vine. i wonder if there's reaching next.  

it's May and the cold air holds, blooming is slow but this trick of spring sets hoya's next round, tiny clusters of tight fingers easing into reaching open. she's older than us, spent more time with our matrilineal undoing than we did. letters arrived to greet our failure while hoya did or did not bloom, by the time we found her she'd become a corner where sediment went but not sentiment, only a little light let through. what did she hear? what could she witness?
                              i took a long time loosing her
                                                                unsure what she had become inside the pot. even now, in her beam of light, she stretches out to hold her own vines up, multiplying care by her own surfaces. i take the time it takes to count her. i keep my touch careful but sure. we are the same line. we both knot, i've seen hers, placed them in new dirt with a song. there's something she hasn't told me yet. i am patient. i am going to stay here while the flowers come, and after.

it's May, held in by moons, held up by flowers. the poem was supposed to already exist. the farm has put fingers in the ground. what works doesn't work now. the stillness is hollow but not so you can get inside it. in the sea of voices you do your counting, they're comfort numbers without significant accumulation. you can do shoulders together with a solid agreement. someone dug up the moss in that one spot but what's behind it still fits.
                          i wonder where our texture went
                                                    while the poem was caught in my throat, while my saying shape pushed its fragments around the misshapen conclusion. i do not desire a map for this. i am doing these weekend studies of being lost in the woods for a few minutes, long enough for me to lean into my new life of becoming the forest. i could take the bit further than this. i could bite the stone i keep in my pocket to remind me i have hands. i could remember my knots, having never forgotten them. the poem hasn't moved yet, so i don't know if it's the kind made of everything i've ever swallowed rising to completion or the kind aiming belly-down, the kind that never becomes poem and just rejoins the poem of my body and its pulp.