But where I come from withdrawal is easy to forgive. — William Stafford
She said she loved me.
She loved me.
Loved me
became an anthem,
a melodic hook.
Stacked like clouds
fists tucked
ready for a fight
bent over or
how horizons form.
Don’t believe me?
Study the moon
and sun’s partnership.
A story of graceful friction.
Literally magnificent light
now wild from abandon.
“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.“ —Saskatchewan farmer saying
a quietness calls
stars still groggy
from shining all night
our tongues found light
in caves of darkness
bound by touch
we hold tight
such ritual informs
produces distills
grand obscene thoughts
bent knees
rabid digits
intake release
revelations replicate
unseen feedback a risk
strung across suffering
that has no reflection
“Variety, multiplicity, eroticism are difficult to control.” — Barbara Christian, The Race for Theory, 1988
the world has been ending
since humans monetized time
selling stories elegant as tree rings
interrupted only to loop
together, attention affects gravity
softly gathered in quiet
found in the folds of endurance
atoned — we focus on the migrating season
elegant in its infinite chase
an autumn sun rose ripe
peachy explosions
light bloomed dandelion bright
take my hand, let’s walk
to the edge of town
I promise our sky opens
if you listen to its longest shadows
Cache Culture 