heat

from all sides like the

breath of a lover in heat

i can feel it sleeping in

the bricks with its eyes 

on the sky, opening up

and showing itself as empty

no clouds and no sun

its feet settled into something

with a little too much

give for comfort; i reached

into the corners looking

around for a familiar surface

and found yesterdays 

alibi crying and crying

into the leaves leaving

darker streaks of green

in patterns only discernable

by the prophets bloodline.

slowly now.

i sling my fists 

like fools gold 

and hold the 

heartache in 

high esteem, 

somewhere soon

the machine 

will beep and 

three words 

in the sentence 

will die of shock.

there are languages 

set in crystal cutting 

clean the sense of 

urgency; so when 

she smiled her 

dialect was well understood.

"in the sleeping past something waits; and its stories will smell like wet paper when told leaving the nightmares around your bed like traps."

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.

"the bricks keep the cold in."

she said, quietly shivering

under the quilt that was supposed

to keep us both warm.

her explanation was simple

but she knew it made sense

in the way that everything

she said made sense to her.

if i had the words to explain

to her everything that I felt

she needed to know, I would

have taken her cloudy breath

and given her life and a smile.