Éditions MMYOPE Éditions MMYOPE

Down shut. Like mania. Like returns. Prowling flat alongside the roots and then, up there, the branches too. Holding on, just so. Like flat. Make me more. Return. Again. Like down shut and like again, some return passing by me, like pouring. So that by then things would be so, like roots. Prowling the flat ground of glad marrow. Justly. Marred down and like return. Pouring, scowl. Drowned, horned foul. Sober, marking sour.

Like dried, like it could be, like excess and like levitation. High above what is earthen and sour. Like trembling and bitter, sober. Perhaps like something I might not know. At length, over so. Like tremor. Like it matters. And beyond even. Like a correction, not so. Like return, in short.

Like a flight, high above what is earthen and sour, up there, the branches too. Holding on, just so. Like a return, how it goes, short - like so. Drawing out what like excess and tremor, marking down what is earthen and sour, like roots. Down - shut, like mania. Prowling a flat, passing by me. Like ground, marred with glad marrow, pouring over. Obvious marrow. Like marking down what is sour. Perhaps like something I might not know, at length, making like a return.

Just tender, like soft and fellow. And beyond, just as. Just so. Just beside, like crying, like wailing. Making flat, below, around, through. Piercing though it may seem, for eyes like yours, again like so. Like a word. Like my favorite one is simmer, because it always stays so, like a change without difference. Something to return to, grown.

Justly so. As it may. Though it seems far. Like a pain I feel, still reeling, drown and pour. And sour. And bitter. Feeling like the very most it could be. Like a correction. Like a redress. Finding in it something like many, something like an order. One and a few, so it may be so. As it may be, earthen - so sour. Made prowling of glad marrow. Flat ground. In it something like it could just be so close. Fewer and fewer, I lose track, what may be brought forward. Making it become, made then as though it was. Like a return. And I avoid then.

It was more, I recall, like a fence. Lined up, both far below and still above. Hanging still. Like marks mourning close by, just so it was. And it ended far, there - over there far still. I'd been too much. I'd play just so, with my arms just so, and my eyes closed. So that my hair would fall like that. And it was there, lowly above the flat marrow, grounded in, just so, that far away you could return. Like a willing, like I'd asked. So to wait, I could tell, would take time. Like I know now, it was clear just as well. But I could hold on too, just like you did. It was time, and time again, like a return. There bristling, I felt heat, like hitching, or groaning. Or moaning as though you did now. And in it I saw through.

If I looked now, it was what I saw through that would be far away. And here would be far away too. And I can't quite, though it could be still. If our breaths were to be held. Keeping on. Pouring through to you what's for me. Sweet, kind, melting. Creeping unto me, like it was loosened far away and had just made its way. Sure, beside, keeping, lowly. Marred by. Like a return, just so that I could hold, and the sway could try, as did you, and so I could keep holding. Though it tried. And I felt, like you had made me try to before, like it was so childish not to. And that was what I was after when I willed it to. It was just so. In gentle sweeps and calling me. Though I can again see. If my eyes were closed, and my arms, hands, body justly so. That I hitched. As far as I could tell.

Mapped to the edge of the fence post - a resting beat. A stake, soldered down to the earth. Hunger drawn out, making thirst, masking sweat, hiding the tired face, pushing hurt. To be leaned against, mounted, countered. To be pinned to, made known, made seen. To be there, through and close. And made to see. And made to look. Slightly over, just beyond, a kind of trail, something like a shadow. Something like a passage. That sour. That bitter. Like a taste over time, like what remains of it. Like cringe. Like shame. Resting. Passing by. Moving on over, and through, to what is left. Just there.

Making me march and wonder. Making use of a tensed body, stuck for a while, in freeing motion. Refusing from itself that burdened allowance, in which all that can have been was. In a return, like a fervor. Maddening. Rigorous, dense, potable. Stormed over. In and out of shape, out through and down into. Pressing ground. Seething. Stretched over. Such and such. A song in canon, reappraised. Redressed, in and over itself. Over and around. And making more of the same. Masked and retread. A path worn over out into itself, into something much like it was. Out of what is earthen, by smell, by reciprocity. Into itself so like a return, it may become a change without difference. Held as such and marked, into itself. That is marrow. Marching, still, tense, making all the ways it may need - so that it could. Because what else isn't sour and bitter? Just? What else is broad? And far below? And just above? Marrow moanings, unflinching tremor.

Running down. Marking the skin like pins. Highlighting deep lips marked to the edge for your return. A redress. Somewhat too, instilled. Like you might. Obvious tellings, a shiver. Something I see through to, and recessed, hinted, possible. Still though it was. I return, still. In tensed bodies I had waited times over. To now - of what I can remember being time again a thing not so unlike a disappointment. Of having to, all the while willing to. And both meaning nothing, each so much still. Like it could have been, and so then what was. Like seeing through branches that highlighted bits of the path, soiled and run through. Imagining them windows, what they show, what they invite. A step, not unlike yours - or else, something more. And you can tell, just how much it is I have been yearning. How much I will, how much of it I do. That it is mine I hope over once more, and then again, like so for a very long time.

And it is in that. Reflected poorly up back at us. Lost somewhere, sunk. Sinking still, in beyond, almost like deep far beyond - to ground itself unto. As aching. In hurdles, out in by - like flight. Like I cannot remember and so it must come to me without warning, like how I would look through and now things are not quite the same - and just different enough that I can make them out still - quite like they were. And this kind of return I can't get away from - like a pain hitting just above the temple - pressing down. It is such - grounding me and wishing it. Missing a part and maybe still, still it could be. Hollering out.

Of what is left, something that could push me out. Rushing by me, making its way, spilling taste forward into a cringed, embittered, soot. Displaced, outraged. Making the rounds of our binding, pressing on out into us its shape. Marking us, should it ever leave - though so it would forever remain. Imprint, pressing, grounding. A remains of some sort of confusion, sour thought, that drove out of me. Spewing itself. Instilled. Crowding.

It could be. More - like a flashing. Untreated cast drawn out to cool, framed here by the linen along the walls - making up corners, kept by its surrounding in some strange suspension - some sort of complete rest. Risking itself only to slumber. That it may then be forgotten, such that its care might be rendered out, positioned, implicated. Trounced by the jutting makings, indisposed and awkward. Resist urges far beyond me and drawl out some incomprehensible matter, a frill, a prompt.

Upright, some like what insists. Plotting the kind that might crowd and collect, in a demand loosened upon the rest. Like it is lost completely in itself. Sweltered. Unpure, soiled. That span, that luring toll, to till itself to. To rave and to craze. To burst. Sprung out and thrashed. Rendered bust. Might it spill. Pained to stop. Like sense lost to urges, satisfied and blotted. Gushing. Might it, I think then, be kept - what was made. Now, as I gaze through to it, like through a kind of remain, deeply rooted in itself, feigning.

What more, I am left without, maintains and reviews. Gone and slotted, fit, trounced. And it renews, making of itself a matter. Much like sweet and torn, and gone from itself. As though, maligned, poorly registered. Flashing. Drowned to itself. I can see through to it. I can will it. I can find it, running my hand alongside me. Perking. And that I address, masking itself. Return. I ground myself. Pushing against my own weight, some sort of lancing feat. Like I might never again, and upright I can see the soiled trail it has drawn. Jutting.

Clasps gather around to which I am bound, makes raves - confining me, pulsed. Pressing like a constraint that pours out into itself. New view, of which I lather into myself. And like a return, like it is unheard. And of what it makes up I cannot just unfold. Be it, though unfurled, maligned and seamless. Both conscripted, unwilling, and pressing, like an assault. There molded, shaped, inscribed. Those marks that border the room and jostle. Preen. Such it be in a kind of softness. Like a polish. Like a drawing. Such as it beckons, that I am pulled toward, without choice. Willed by someone, from elsewhere, further than what I can see through to. And it is crazed, instilled in itself. Gushing.

Out into, like a return. That provision, lasting murmur, encased, redrawn. Lossy, murked. High tidings of what was to come. Like I couldn't avoid, as though it had been there - already, during, while. Such like that there are these things tender and precious, that I yearn. Hollering out. Like I am to be the other, met, completed in that way. I am to be there when it happens and I cannot miss it, since it won't either. Else it might never. Strained, displaced. Arranging in me some meaning. Instilled, inverse, exposed.

In this, of which I am to be outdone, pouring a callous foam - simmered and cooled. Guzzling out into a marrowed ground. Pressed onto itself and through to, to where creep and silence makes. Hollering out in damning speech, how it cannot be heard but felt, though alike. In it I reside. Some marred space, that makes up and conceives, that clasps, splits. That is filled by gross and awkward foam, imprinting onto me. Like a residue, like a formation. Prescient and orderly. That of which masks a sound, far away, something that I cannot make out.

That I am bridled by, remaining and still, pursuant of origins I cannot track. That follows into and through, that chases. Steeped. Falling. That languishes over into itself - rushing to me by a calling that I cannot make up, something true in sovereign - that passes for homestead, like a ground to which I am tied. Made of binds that root and disperse themselves. That I cannot see, prowling, into a torrent, masking itself over the cringe. Fed by the pricked fruit, juices that flow steady, orderly and just. Running from deep wells, morsels unto cavernous innards clasping and justling, into something right and true, something like a sight or an event. Like a return. Pushing into itself. Untorn. Unruptured. Irked and crazed. Flailing froth that maps itself to the edges and borders of myself, clothed over me some restraint of unwilled furor. Stormed over me imprinted. Like I am to it something that belongs.

Into reaches that are bridled with inspired falls, that bemoan. Like care, or perhaps candied. A sweetness soiled and processed. Something unknown. Foreign in itself, forging into a pattern some enveiled weave. Like gathered. Embroched. Suppliant entroved polish, reflecting up at me fine silken spit. Embalmed in cast flesh, somewhere freed from flashing, in a tongue cleaned by time or exhausted of it. Burring unkind parcels, like keepsakes ensoiled within. Coating warmth in calloused jowls a treading malice.

Broken and unbroken, sewn alignment of seamless incandescence. A grafted transplant, splintered border, I grasp out to its edges, stretching out its wilted ends, and sigh from my hold. Hinging from the matted precipice that lofted brilliance, in gentle hope, so it may shower the cast over, with a kindly glow. Highlighting the trembling seam of a bridged mold, that claimed source - malted bud - sour and embittered, sealed to impose on the finished surface that line, drawn out such by that unraveled shine.

Flooding itself too in that frantic permanence, some lowly passage of might. There crowding under and around to attest to its voided counterpart. Inscribing on the ground, incensed by its powder. A shrouded truth, plain telling of envious soot. Priming beneath its image, the lather of an appeal, teeming, to this unfurled tenure, that that plaguing light unearthed and colors. Making a replica, of the flashes that conceal this entranced spill. Lording over itself that glow, following its border, sharpening in careful proximity the routed edges. That plunging shadow, which wanes and swells, recedes in the echo of rocking light, and recoils to the high noon looming of a just sun.

That lunging stride it lets loose in the safety of our dim earth, lapped out from crowning recesses into an unleashed terrain. Roaming shadow. Shrouded slit, of which I see none, that crowds the far edges of my reach in this untenable molasses of whisked cement, grounding me to the unknown. Prying into me. That copulates that earthen grass to some monstruous shade, entrenched for a creeping slither, reaching out from me my garden in leering swipes, that makes forget me not an amnesiac and drunken swallow. Jeering gallows. Denude the comfort from my hip. That hand, sinking into my breast a sow, pouring out into it some molten puce from a nestled brow.

Hood over my eyes. Pursed temptress. Youthful sail that fills and flows. That resounding whisper, of plow, of gut. That bellied gasp. So stow that tempest hide. Instead! glow of splendored ore - honored jewel and lain ingot. That resounding whispered hone, pressing invitation. Scintillations among dim and drowsy powders. Enchanting glimmer, scalding to the touch. Bathed in promise of wilting shelter. In that restraint, relenting from my post, I forgive a misstep that aims toward this rocking maw. Famed tantric and heinous favor, of dainty mood, of precious spirit, toward this most rancid bloom that would want to fray my blind passage.

And though the coating fades, that out from below rises a more fruitful glow, dismisses something plain and soft. Marrying to fellow pulses that due golden echo. Along chorus and weeping dew, see to the shining flume spanning this earthy grout, stretching out that splaying loan. This immense gesture sweeping the most labored line and raced willow, that trestled ground, that knotted canyon, that sewn bowel of earth's sorrow, through to the uncoiled sea and the linted trove. Plentiful howl, joyous toil, morning comes bearing this dowry, of furious pommel and caring blow. Bloom inspires this newfound youth of siphoned lo, that travelling humor has passed once more. There to stay it seems, in this revived hour.

Alike and aside. Mannered. Ensnared. These push me forth from the gilded drum beating into shapely ways this untidiness. To which there' little more than none. That caress breaching the topmost layer of my skin. Darkening its composure. That reddened itch of an irritated glow. It beckons and soothes, it seems, only partly. That it shapes such a vessel, incomplete and hollow. Producing only an awkward and bitter residue. Too much, making an imbalance too pronounced. And it places a sickness, a kind of ache or vapor. That closes out the seams of my situation by some cheap thread. Some waned splendor, that drooping accent or broken corner.

Once gathered and tilled, these efforts produce only a bitter fruit. A sweetness not for the tongue, or the senses, cringed to the touch, or be it false to the ear. That song so new and so fresh, burnished out from a foggy glass. Gloomed. Murked. Honoring its oily and shiny surface with boils and blisters. That burning flesh, lavish and precious. Petulant in its stay and the invasive herb borne from its place smothers the plenty and the few. Some mildewy fog. That perfect middle, a limp average of its otherwise tempting extremes. A plain surface, gross and usual. Sweating something like shine, to reflect and admire. That it is safe, that it is dull. That it marks the skin some shallow fissures, ensoiled, clasping the flesh and attempting to devour from the marrow the sum pleasure known only to a merry few - those so gladly fellow to the far below and the still above, making like levitation a return, pushing aside any trick or flash from this distasteful suspension.

Finally I release my beholden veil, leave behind such cares, and in blindness, saturated sight of my repurposed line, toward that venture pushing through to the paned views of this branching trellis. There I rest and sow the needed sleep out from my agitation, the excursion proving taxing. In this exhaustion, refrain to, like a return, my once present situation. This old rest. This hold that would once shake and emboss the hem of my frame. This simmer, the true kind, that dances and aspires. To excess. That most desired place. Wherein it is possible to belong, that glad marrow of shallow sound.

That playful. Possible. Right. Excess. Many and too few. Culling the stems from this iridescent way. That borders and covers. That wrapping hue. None too bright or too pale. And in that great absence, from which many can belong, exhales a kindlike fondness. Through to, and forgetful. Passing thoughts of hewn ongoings. That forgiving glow, by which I can bask. And trembling with the felled branches of a faraway beech, strumming these veins, that frail flurry of shape and tone. So I can wonder the span of its reach, that nearing wail, bristling trend, toward this gaunt monument. The whistle of winded air that winter bears. In and through the leafless tree, holding together in hemmed deference, nimble allure of this venerable stone. That solid shape rolling through and around. That rooted flute humming this accord. Agreeable and kind, the fretted switch once bloomed and bright threads this formidable blow in this attire, that lanced flare, its ragged mane, stippled against the wintery sky as its distant pelt storms the greying jets.

Nonplussed by the narrow pass of excess' share a fluted hare makes its way in and abound, this entangled outing, rerouted and revised, that impatient hum of collapsed air. The gestating excess - still and sightly. The marriage of the two - irreproducible, only to appear once more as excess itself. And that return, that glad marrow of boundless balance, all is well-mannered and tense, arranges itself. Through to itself. By itself. The wondering hare makes an easy path. This reverb, the rooted vibration, the loud silence. The incomparable many. The quiet balancing act. These matters may sway me. That they may rock me, entranced passage in and around. That plural boundary. Loosened upon loss. Irretrievable by all means within and without, by such extremes, and their careless middle. The true belonging of excess, that assigned threshold, the fringed.

In and around, the careful eye misses the plain truth. That through and to, enlikened wholeness, that impeccable incomplete of boundless possible, shivering. This kind of telling, where lossy and porous are paramount. It is in the distant then that I can find, beyond and above, the feigning tip of this gesture. That most gentle way that I may judge within myself these cascading thoughts. Divided and pierced. The forking path trailing replica, unfurled and carried to its natural end. That same reach and the place they occupy, the matching airs, from simmered commons. Commiserating some meander of an ongoing brow. Pliant. Right. A forgiving gesture made in attempts. This arching breath overcome. All lined still for our eyes to wander, to piece and collect. Suppliant fervor, the yearning kind. Like begging. Filed close to the edging glare, of prolonged and plunging. The bifurcated hare, twisting body, racing pace, twin sight of this belonging care. So the still body might find its folded sense, that most secret desire, that most gentle truth, a rested stare to notice these comings and goings, in careful confidence. Hurling in all directions. Possible. Loud. Soundly.

There beckons the howling marrow. Glad marrow. Of twilit stare. The penance for my attempts. A failure to relinquish that most scarce bond. To which you are many. As likened by the similarity of your hand to the tree, or your breath to a wave, this stride you relish in for the wilting of the bloom, passing and going. And so I return, to a fence far below and still above. The levitating prowl moored by a past I should not reprise, and yet must to reaccustom this changed body to learn once more the aches of my patience and the untidiness of its thought, burred face to an otherwise frothing yawl. A condition not unrewarded, for the thought of your return abides the pain this tender skin suffers. That holding stare I must keep, since to miss you sings shut my senses and life would go on to that endless whimper. Since I'd been gone too long already in pursuit of feckless dawns. This faraway beech, that tree most telling, a call too kind, of folly paid to a stubborn mind - given the selfish task of waiting and wanting most no less in kind.

Holstered volley, the rooted tree, that nested hope, of passage seen, I return to my post, in loving sway, and hold fast, that stillness last - at least enough for us to rein a lasting desire, past these hurried thoughts. It is in the frolic pitch of these distant panes, that I hold to this banner, unkept and unheard, that clear estate of wants I preen and flower.

Tending to your absence in my tired song, refrain after refrain, these same manners. In the same order I begin to count my impatiences and huddle behind the mount to avoid a leering image of my sad position. Yet I cannot leave, my fence, looking at my tree, making the branches of its weathered trunk views into my desire. For you to be here, now and not then, so that I'd be certain that you had never strayed far from forgetting me not, that in the tangled mess you treaded in your departure you had not once wished to avoid your labor - of eventually clearing back around with that most gentle hand, that same one you could once give to me. And that, as you went along, told no one of my impatience, left me with the burden of that shame, so you would then be the sole mender of my frail embrace, so I could beg your forgiveness for the time elapsed, having left scars from wounds not yours.

And instead I might wish for you to wait. And instead I would be stronger then. And that my eyes be open just a bit more, I could see you more clearly and your chest warmer in the noon sun of another day. There that I should sweeten the reward just a bit further. Lengthen the pleasure of your breaking hands. Brace your shattered frame in a bind made wiser. That I might bite my tongue some more.

And instead I could see myself never wanting to see you again. What that would feel like. To have this mean nothing at all. That I could surround myself in a garden, frothing and pouring, with edges meant to be sharp and to repel. So that my heart would remain the last place you kept, my eyes could wander, and the reminder would last past the memory. And so a new shape might form. One not so far away, one much closer. That it could not leave, or come back.

What would it say about me? That you should be the one who came back, and they would see that you left once more again. And that I would have to wait all over. Holding steadfast that ground which ties my thigh to the fence, and that I might hold my breath. Holding for there to be another chance, one more fainter still. That there, I would be the one who wasted away. Haggard and bitter. That stewing stare, the one that you are told to avoid. So stripped and bare that you know not to approach. What if that is what you might do?

And what happens then if I was to take your hurt and swallow it whole? Would you recognize my rotting eyes and the sour breath, of someone who took it too far. That then I lost my senses, and became wild and dangerous. My speech so rattled it lost all meaning. And I could not want anymore because I took and took. And then I would forget because I had taken so much. That what you left would be so shallow like the flat of the wall. That you might come back a thought like a soothing lie. That my callous nerves and these hardened palms would not have to feel the pressing fence, that I could close my eyes and not see the faraway beech, or the sights it reveals. That I could become a storm and never calm down.

Or that the path back became hidden somehow? Did you consider you might have gotten lost? That that is why you have not returned. And that I am to wait for someone truly gone. Would you call for me? Would it reach my ear? Or did that never happen? Could the trail have stayed the same? But you took a wrong turn? That the hills split open. The ground shook loose. Pouring rains swallowed where you were, rearranged all terrain leading here. A giant wind swept you off, and you grew still in an empty mind. That rains made torrents and rivers loosened to swells. That sea became ocean and the waves too strong. That someone ripped you from me. And they forbade you from reaching back to me. And you spent the rest of your days thinking of the ways you might make your way back. That you devised ploys and foul means to fly out to me. That you could not escape. Or that they loved you and you loved them. And that that is the reason you will not return.

That I was too dull. Or I was too slow, that perhaps I did things wrong. Like I could not keep up. Like maybe you kept your true intentions hidden. That we would never have mended our pain and the sprawling body we left was to be hung dry, something to fascinate over but that was it. You thought me too silly, not serious enough. That I lingered. That I never enjoyed you in the ways I needed. That I should have guessed but still too dim to figure how. Could that be it?

Or do you not think those things? Or that none of this ever happened? Instead that I was just so wrong, so plainly false. That I lived something flashing along a blunt edge, something in passing I held so close. Placed a mark so off I could not walk it back. And that you gave it no second thought. That you did not leave at all. That could be possible too, I guess, and time makes me only wonder. Is this still brave? Do you need me more at all? Maybe you know just how much I can hold and have never doubted. So you do not worry. And when you come back, I would not ever have either. You would find me as I said, calm. Patient. Proper. Because I'd be right then, that I was once again foolish. Pretending to something foreign only totally. And that is why. Like a return. Something I should expect to happen. And maybe you would never ask what I did in the meantime. And we would not wonder. That I could tell you I will not ask you either. And that would make you certain. That you would be sure to never again. Because we are bound. By some glad marrow.

In a breathless cadence

And Immediately find it inside ourselves – something like I am surrounded by fuzzy things. Pouring down, weeding through me, placing like – or marks finding reflections. They wrap me, uneven and tense

At humming pace, reaching like how sound is just stacking over something that cannot be firm. Loosely tied together in dust, realizing, stitched – just so.

I place them – efforts of love that have since turned tender soft as the flashes chipped off. Surging my skin, lifting the hairs on my head into strands to be plucked. They are the spears, in all senses of the word, that I hurl away.

Out in speech, in feeling, begging torn. I hold down no more what the many loves I used to spit, where instead I let flow in even and gentle streams a truth. I find no dams between folks I mean lots to, for some rivers run sideways.

I tie myself, strands of grass woven top-left / bottom-right, down the whole garden into slopping hills with yet so much to show. Tugging at the earth below, wringing water out of the clouds until yellow dry. Crispness that pricks blood off the plant of my steps.

Just like river grout – found in the backyard tossed along with pebbles. Clouding the wall from knee-height up in subtle soot of dirt, bordering on grey, once hidden in the knit strings of purple wallpaper where I can recall to first seeing without sight.

Making mucky roughs.
Like greens, like orange, a sharp glow off tin roofs, dawn recess of the wooden walkway, down the stairs, out the gate and many lefts and rights into the warmth. Cobblestone courtyard growth.

With my toes I imagine that the flat of the wall is a canyon, treacherous kind with faults trounced over at speed. And so, with nails against these plaster summits, I scratch away the definition by making arcs out of a straight leg.

To the pull of my calves, looking with dim twilight some bruises from play, I trace the toughness of my hip as time will only etch it out. Among others I recognize the sound of popped joints to echo the passerby stepping on the manhole cover below.

In the same light appear figures of all sorts. Grimacing as the shadows mis-form their features through each passing night, and between tired eyes I make out the fears that follow me into a sleep that stretches itself out, hurled at speed, up towards it.

Making again over, the same motion – pleasant and necessary – that I feel like pushing against it. And though there are no fewer canyons or faces, haunting is being brought back to them and, myself just taller as some brittle joint whips out the snap of folding back.

Heard by quiet ears. That strobe from such swaying air as that of the heating in our building, or the slipped whistle wind catches tunes from in through the cracks of the window, making the trees move and rocking the signs hanging – out lonesome.

Pushing its weight and that of his siblings into the asphalt, pressing and ganging up on tar, tears that morning dew will accommodate. Stilt-like steps on the road, cornering the avenues out into the streets – looping until it returns back to the dead-end.

Wind ways that carry like such - grabbing hardened skin peeling from my lip, making small dioramas with the bite of my teeth, to keep and to grow.

And steps up two rights, many lefts, a few more like it and I can be in my bed – out many windows. Sights of mist or the blinded sun tapping through the kaleidoscope of dirty glass. Finger prints of attempts and falls, my head striking the wall right above wood trim.

Play as such, wrought needed closeness. Warm yells track through the door, frustration making my teeth ache at the brass fillings. Plotting out my next steps, swampings. Recently cemented as. Quoting here from elsewhere what I reminisce to be:

Brighten – stumps. Running – crumb. A lot and no form. Too much it’s just so. I’ll see to it. Shards on the lawn, roots-like sprouting. Stumps you’ve made – your shoulder aches, I love you holding me.

And Immediately find it inside ourselves - what throws simmer out with roots and bones. To leave light crust that dries up against the heavy-bottom pot, spinning out knots up my spine. Strangled cusp.

Justly spent. Torn to a spindle are the remains of what cannot stop pulsing, yet eked out by a stretch, managing to hide what smile is crowding. A faint gesture out toward where I wished to go.

Pushing with ease of the index a dent in the hall, once promising closure to delight the windows, smog creases from the threads, makes the sun gallop, hustles to a sweat what my brow sought to have left.

Rounding the corners, and pressing the matter, I get ahead of myself but my head’s a simmer. To crown and erase what would, jointly understood, melt this hour. I retreat small and timid into place and cower too to caress.

And immediately find it inside ourselves. That which moves like it furrows along the shore.