In the winter
we eat sharp white cheddar
and drink the sweet cream sherry
we bought at a rural supermarket
in Oklahoma on a roadtrip.
It’s what we do to get us through
the spurning of the sun.
The thing no longer howls as close
to us out in space.
We sit by white walls
and fireplace fires,
and feel the fibers of sweaters
against our swollen skin.
It’s what we do to forget lovers
who spurned us
and learn to know each other,
learn to grow old,
to somehow have courage as
we become cowards.
The memories of autumn,
the smell of fallen leaves,
the emptying of the streets,
these things seem sweet to us
the thing no longer howls as close
to us out in space.
It was a pedestal from the sun
that healed me.
Precipiced before the town of my youth.
This same pedestal supplanted the
cellular variables in my female
and while it gave me the energy of
my next birth
it also gave her cancer,
like a plant of metabolism,
a burning of time.
If the intuition of the scientists is me
then it is also the way that I have loved
the delicate and vulnerable souls
I have loved.
These afternoons between time
can never be repeated.
They are outside the script of
has made me eternal.
I believed in you like the sun.
always to return,
but the sun comes and goes,
has its faint winter days
and skeptical days of rain.
I should have believed in you like air.
Always there, regardless.
That is how I suffocate now,
That is where you go with me,
The air outside a bus in Washington.
The reflection of myself alone in
The scent of summer’s grass brush death.
The air inside a stagnant bedroom,
two thousand miles away from
the islands of Washington,
dirty clothes are with.
The air and sun are there.
You ran away. That’s it.
Places of America.
Answers in cafes,
treelines along highways,
the unbroken horizons of the stolen
Medicine far away.
A different cosmology.
To wade in saltwater far away.
Pancakes in Delaware.
Toss that electricity into a portal
on the other side of the Milky Way.
We will die before anyone truly understands
any of this human or American stuff.
We will die before it’s you that realizes
you ran away.
Does consciousness realize itself?
Is there a memory called love
or an overturned wooden rowboat
on the beach in Oregon,
is that a metaphor of a Saturday
that is too old?
That is gone before the jealousy
of the ocean’s fury
with children in red hats
chasing the seaspray’s reflection.
The winter won’t kill you there
Buried under leaves
Crusty dried and dusty hardwood leaves
My heart beats
Silence and silence speaks
Silence has a lot to say with these hills
leading the way
to the sundown
I know nothingness equates to everything
because here and also there
in midnight and also where there is no light
the winter won’t kill you
Even if I were to die on the sea
You in your nice home then
would be like more than the appearance
turning towards the always you forget and
the birds of relativity were flying over farms
they saw the students from biology
picking apples and making samples.
the apples filled their blood
and healed some and some went on to be sick.
in their days
some died in retirement
some died in their 30s
some died holding the hands of loved ones
many years later
some died alone.
the birds of relativity approached the mountains
and took a spot atop one
above gray clouds
by the highland hay and a nest of eggs
the way a tibetan flag flies turquoise.
the bird watchers looked for them
but the birds could not be found.
the bird watchers simply couldn’t see
from where they stood
and this is very much like what the sun does
or how the land believes and makes its vegetation
or how what we think love is
is only a companion for the future
a preposition for changing our genetics.
it is now come and gone
the space birds above the circle.
This is the alcoholic’s diet of unborn children
Yes, that’s right
Their parents aren’t perfect but wanted
Turning into walls
You didn’t say that sentence properly
Be quiet, you’re giving me a riot
There . . . ghosts!
They live everywhere, even in between the minutes
before watching television
I meant the alcoholic’s diet of unborn children
Not me, not my problem
I don’t have them
Oh just go kill yourself
You drinking again?
I don’t respect you
the eastern sky there
as beautiful as your love
when i left you
dreaming dark blue clouds
mortal like you
they asked to shape breathing
witness to a history
not be forgotten
not even by the newborn flowers
or the new myocytes
of your heart
for the eastern sky there
and the stray dogs in the alleys
sniffing at the dandelions
i see in this darkness
you look for the light
There is a large land
a large land in my head.
It is you. It is you.
Taking up what’s known.
The visits down to the ice cream shop.
The crystal ship.
Visits to foreign lands.
The feeling of holding babies
in foreign lands
under different suns.
Twisting orange suns.
The feeling begins again and again
like a library of precipices in the blue house
An archive of horizons.
A computational hero
in my chest.
I got home
I sat in this chair
I thought about you
meant to get up to clean the litterbox
I ended up dozing off
hunched over in my chair
it hurt my neck and back
when I woke up they were in pain
I wondered how I could fall asleep
then I remembered how heavily
I had been thinking about you
how it felt lethargic and burning
in my heart
sluggish and enzymatic
I made myself go up stairs to