it's May bluing, blooming, suspicious ombre tulips, gulls in the ball field, stick collections as doorways, moondrunk squirrels remembering chatter, the skunk that lives under the building, cigarette's lit flick into the grasses, one storm layered onto the next with parting glow, the air's wet-not-wet demeanor, the curling ends of paper, ink versus the drop. blue doesn't hold back, the vocal track always comes through. we know the swishing sound from the popping sound but let them weigh the same. these missives are amusing, they float on the surface while anything below quietly complicates.
i go to bed bare
from the waist up like the dancers in their medical lighting hoping to dream in the show, the difference is i'm trying to put my own tension down. each time i wake in the night, not a small number, i think of the proof of their bodies marking the floor, of the sounds replacing skin connecting skin, what it is to present your exhaustion to the room, heaving while the light goes. what is my responsibility here. i make my sheets into sound, floor, air, light against my back, chest, stomach, soles of feet. i try to keep my arms and shoulders from binding, keep my neck loose. here's my head in longing's basket, letting its full weight get rocked. i can't remember if the dancers moved through the tension or just moved it around.
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