-
and I am settled in that place, poised on the cusp of an essential neglect, boundless
-
she rises from the many shared
-
her mind shifts beneath itself, untethered
-
she murmurs, "gravity is gorgeous when you're upside-down"
-
this tactile thread between us this multiplicity blends
-
like the smallest sigh from the lips of a newborn child,
she comes to me softly new, holding the future
-
I learn her language
and she teaches me how rain gets wetter
-
in the comfort of stone we whisper, to the warmth that crawls from each careful
-
ground with salt between my eye
barely peeled
-
this grief is not a silence.
it is an absence of sound.
-
on waking she was undiscovered,
again
-
-
she envied the stars their distance, each hand fumbling to tear them down-
-
my fingers can be likened to those of any other,
-
an April Tuesday comes and eyes slip open,
-
she never glimpsed
the metaphor in her eyes,
-
even without a name I knew you.
-
emotional naivity
is etched into her trust,
-
-
-
old Spring comes lightly nuzzled by thoughts of what was
-
I don't know the names of the little birds
-
we are sketched as a brightness cast from our other lives
-
she digs for words
that are weightless enough
-
-
this untethered edge is thin
-
she collected lost whispers,
-
her tangible youth was lived hidden in Bell Jars
-
last Wednesday she found another figment, wedged tight around her trust-
-
she's all itches and scribbles
in margins grown thin,
-
there is a transparency to dying as we rise between each letter of this shape-
-
a movement embedded between its viewer and the otherness
-
Father's stone, sun-wept into blue,
-
she often wears bare feet, carved boneless like the earth
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