July

A. Walpurgis Night

They’re going…
Into the brightest night
Burnished pilgrims
Bathed in gossamer light
Crushed through gilt neon
And carried out of sight

B.
I.

Over groaning floorboards
We speak past each other
Thoroughly divergent
…There’s blood in the stairwell

II.

“I see a hanged man there”

An echo on the night’s breath
I step into its drooping mouth

III.

Dragging tender feet
Under pointed stars
Catching debris
In an ever darkening wake

“I see a hanged man”

Searching, sunken eyes shine
On a newly red ruin;
An overgrown wreck
Half-collapsed
Its second crown, barren
That once leafed dome now
An arboretum of mangled limbs

“I see…”

IV.

Under that brittle canopy
From scorched throats
Ashen voices rise
Lilting
The branches shake
Bodies further contort and animate
The blood, now black
Draws their eyeless gaze…
Sharply still and
Suddenly, swaying

V.

“I see a hanged man there”

Together, we wait
In a silence more perfect than death

Morning-After Rain

I saw you,
Through the dew and mist
Stepping towards a
Cold, gray labyrinth
And how those walls embraced you,
As if stone were
Marigold or hyacinth
Neither shattered light
Nor heavy fog could
Stay my shame, that reverence

Another branch from the laurel,
One more step on salted earth

1,900 Days

I.

Nothing is more painful
Than speaking
When every word
Further distorts
That breathy near silence,
Cultivated with pained smiles and
Patched over with trivialities

We say everything,
But what needs it
So we stew,
Climate-controlled, lukewarm

I notice my digestion

You and yours press me
Five, six, and seven,
Or was it twenty-two, nineteen…eleven?

Nausea

Without a look of reproach,
You leave the room
And I’m left to wonder

We begin and end again
Strangers from the first

II.

There was a glint
In your eye
While you were under me
But it always fogged over,
When meeting mine

I grasped at the smoke,
You’d pick up your phone

There is no escape or
Transfiguration
Whether under the moon
Or fluorescents,
In the void of nature or
The Madding Crowd

The great turn inward
Reveals only dust
Ground up in Stuart’s Mill
What’s left wanders in the
Screeching silence of
The Buddha

“What are you thinking about?”