swaying, swaying.

and the white shell sang

mostly to itself

its lungs full of my air

and its veins full of 

my lovers blood, asleep

in the sway of things.

the quiet ghosts of tide

and moon stood with 

their eyes closed 

in close reach of the song

avatar smiling with the shell

at his feet humming along.

he told me the talent

was in their bones

and in the marrow

like a copper conductor

the rosary beads bent

over his knuckles like

scars or lips parted

in confessional kisses

and when the song was over

so was the conversation.

More fridge poetry

I thought that was the night

or is it you too?

often where we have

fought off the sunshine on the floor

suddenly; you must smile the uncharted smile

that your eyes told you to.

I watched the fool

talking the eager language

each word dropped on her body

like a desperate kiss

in that hard airport tongue

some goodbyes, are never meant

to be spoken out loud...

jargon.

i want to play with the roots that

grow languorously from the tips

of your fingers.

sleeping during the day

in a heat wave

and in need of shade.

cut off is how it feels

sometimes; in the distance

sleeping off the shock

of our close contact dialects.

fair is fair

the language that we made up

is getting lost

in the noise around our feet

and my hands are tired from

explaining everything

in the calm conversational

tones that we

are used to using

the cold spell has frozen

our lips and where we used

to take turns smiling

now we just take turns

forgetting to speak.