from a cold when, a passing

isn't it that
senses
live on dots
three,
next to one another with nothing in between,
but the what holds them together
(a gushing thought someone had)
is pressed between our lives

could call them
bullet holes
without the wall to grip the circle shadows,
yet they do leave
cold tappings in the air

could call it
a wrong number
with no other end for the receiver

just a hang-up,
the coiling tone wrapped around
the hold

sit waiting
with a cigarette butt in the background
and the handkerchief of smoke lifting away,
oh magic

dial
pointing

-
unfortunately can only see you
after you are drawn,
but i'm trying before 

feeling fingers on a keyboard

there are yet

endlessnesses,

becomings

"half of the time we're gone
but we don't know where
and we don't know where"

Tangled Gravities

each person has their own seed of gravity
they are growing up
and in my place as fellow gardener
I notice my hands,
always soiled by the soils of everyone;
and you, it might be, that you get soil from me
stuck to you.

soon you find your seed
sprouts strange leaves you never knew 
it should. 

these tangled gravities worry me,
the gardener of sounds in me
vibrates with a kind of
unsure resound.

those echoes shiver in roots
and shoots
and it becomes impossible to tell
where you and I end
because we began
two shiverings
and then we crossed
and the hug from that conversation
became a hollow
where neither of us can tell apart
our intersticed memberings.

these beautiful gravities
I touch the weavings of,
make me some body.

how human.

imagimachinations

hope without a final vowel
is a step into the silent air
as if spring were,
and planetary bodies once held each other
in warmer embraces.

even if patterns pull at people
they are still frayed
at the core
and at the edges they sheen
like shadows over concrete slabs in photographs
of footpaths.
they listen
unaware of hearts squeezing

they are trying to constrict the airs that pass through,
to pack them and wrap them and
gift them to all

all
next to together

it has been years,
but still hanging are
those hopes,
garlands over houses
rooms where trials for belonging were held;
they are trophies
taxidermied by the passage of
emotion
they are imagimachinations
of an untogotten whirl of man.