fevereverence

a kiss is not a quest[ion]. this axiom we hold. Fortune’s not the only one whose favorites are the bold. in itself an end–and all the same, a start–it can be an answer, and an arrow, and an art.

we inveterate urbanites in hard ochre aura, lisping through cleft palettes with the forwardness of flora; [. . .]

sundance

it is true. the sun is a chariot chasing a_fire. the sun is a ship in cloud-seas, climbing higher. the sun is an all-seeing eye. the sun is a ball beetle-rolled across sky. the sun is nucleicombustion. the sun is the surest sign we put our trust in.

but the sun is also a dance: [. . .]

three powers (and a prelude)

(we met in a maze at a masquerade: she was b[o|a]red, and i was belted.) there was birdsong on the breeze the morning after we first melted. we marked each other on the inner skin, where finials from fingertips don’t fade. fiery and feathered were the mo[nu]ments to meaningress we made.

all ca[s]ts astray

again i thought i saw you there. i wondered when you’d cut your hair. i thought, no, it isn’t her, you’re seeing things all wrong. but she glanced like you’ve lanced and they were playing your songs as i craned to the corner where your smile belongs.

so i danced, dar[t]ing looks through crowdshift screen, [. . .]

when water wants our warmth

let it snow us in today (my love), snow us in our thoughts, a whiteout rift of blank[et]ing drifts to change our [th]is to what we [s]ought.

let’s go out into it, try to intuit its ins and outs; let’s be snown-on, let’s step through it ’til it’s sewn on, stitching with our footprints street [. . .]

since seven’s an odd even

“one thing at a time,” she says, reminding, reprimanding—funny, how she always finds the task that’s most demanding. last week it was “look me only in the eyes”; before that, a week without whisperwhite lies. why her waves are weeklong, i have never tried to ask. sometimes, i think there’s something about seven down in [. . .]

s[m]oothe her

i have seen your smoother parts. i have heard you say “carrier”. i have spilled your drink. i have scenes of the soothing arts you used to cure a barrier between my thing and think replaying in my mind behind the [c]ling of ink—they’re there where we’re their wear and tare, when then and been [. . .]