Crystal salt shaken
through the air
The smooth soft curve
of your breast
your shirt the only wall.
Wet hair and the smell
of flowers on you,
a pink sunrise erupting from behind the distant volcano.
My arms around you.
My face taut and unknowing.
Weightlessness and gravity pitched in endless war.
Salt and sand
You picked at the corner of the broken tile
on the steps of a pink and chartreuse vaudevillian hell
we called a job.
I wrenched my fingers and told you of my
Days later you carried a box of things
to my car and then moved to the city
to be a roady pounding pills and Fireball
to pass out in a dank
dark room over some
in chaos and emptiness.
But the noise was too much (I knew it would be)
and you backtracked
to the sticks with your Mom,
Your sister found you
A suspended form
swinging slow orbits
in the glancing light
of a setting sun,
drooping down, down,
towards this giant Earth
and all Its horrible gravity.
The upturned edge
of your crooked
is the soft sound
of water falling
a tiny spear of sunlight.
by the sea
of a time
when we both
except our shared
I am both singular and plural,
unable to create without violence–
without which nothing is ever truly
born. Where there was nothing before,
there is now a silhouette or multiples of them,
dolls strung together, connected
by touching limbs. Children and adults alike
use me: to make no two snowflakes ever alike,
or to separate the unnecessary parts.
My glinting steel is always seeking–
Not for what is, but what is possible.
Your mountains are ghosts
cobbled from your Mother’s pain,
spilled forth from a gleaming rend
in a cascade of thistle down,
falling atop a shapeless form:
Waterfalls of unending weight.
And you slept there,
inside a coiled snake,
your hands like knives.
For the blink of an eye,
you breathe through her body,
her agony unfurling into a blossom,
Awakened. You crawled along
twisted gullies and caverns,
crimson bent and stained full–
too hard now; now too soft–
only to be released, finally, to rest
amid an awful, blanched cacophony.
This wash of noise and light
is a wicker basket of simple truths.
Love is only a rough hewn stone.