The Desert that Feeds Winter Lairs

We're holding onto our chairs again
grasping breathless for twilight morning air

("see their coat", he says, "don't see the face, don't look in the eyes, unless you want to give yourself away." I am disappointed again, I am thankful he was thinking of me at all, I suppose)

I'm waiting again inside the hollow of our tree
the time is passing faster than we're fleeing
patience, a dreadful midnight gleam,
nothing here stays, everything moves away

I am not he, yet he is me, when he calls me she
I know I am meant to be similar to
all of this
but nothing passes
even in my dreams

vernacular deformities of time, restlessness
I am craving to know, just what makes you so eternal
in all this timelessness
Cynical gleam, almost comically deep, soothing more than stability
We are off again
hunting light bugs in our dreams

sleep deeply, don't tell me I am not
fully asleep
I am vesseling my other body
behind bulletproof imaginary

far


far



from anything binary

away from anything paradigmically loosening



He says I am dead
I am watching the progression of melancholy
feeling sorrowful and sorry
for the dreaming that won't cross this place
apathy like narrowing of loud
vocalized
patronize

I see them bring the dead to life
the so called windy forest bloom
and the morning dew falling heaviest
at bedside root


I am not this or what I think I am
An animal which learns to feed
learns to dwell
a person well educated
teaches to feed
and teaches to dwell
without pronounced
mispronouncing

like conductors of an orchestra can lift

lift

beyond belief


underneath the heavy passages
gloss pearl invisible Light
detached from Dark

See the roadside kill
see the morning sky
follow the slumbering moonlight
lightly blinded by sunbeam shine
I cannot cross
between you and I and
these words
separating
without the reality of infinite time minus realistically dwindling light