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.

the earth is new

the sea and you
clutch one another

there is a boat smiling down the stream
of your consciousness
its bottom wet
the soil of it weeping
forming roots
for the round sweetness
underneath the sun

the earth is pale
in comparison
with the stretched wrangling vision
between the gnarls you ent 

softhought

in the afternoon of your life
- you draw a sunset out of symbols
- you hang up your landry in front of it
- you sleep in a hammock in your eyelids
but there is a string you see
you wish you could grab so that you could uncork
the world

to unleash all that rushing happen.

for you, it would seem
- a powdered sound over your lashes
- silly rain tappings on the awnings over your forehead
- a breeze through your air

mm..

on desks

the pages
couched in between that
lion figurehead walking around the room
and the burgeonings sitting down,
thrust roundabout in their seats
paying with attention
for their retention of what

it's true
some books are thinner
and pockets less strongly clutching,
but hey;
the pages have dates
or ink in some hieroglyphic form
and they're looking for 
the right mental detector
to find what they buried there
ago,

we imaginate

leaves under rain
bend into bowls
and mini-seas form

seaweed tugging at the bottom

we pass over the earth
and things like mounds of dew,
captured visions
at the end of blades
whisker away from shatter

we imaginate
pay for solitude with cloud cover
and distant closed eyelids

Leaving Furniture

a waste of time
has no address
surprising
with so many people living there
moving houses

no day for taking out rubbish
no lawn outside
but many of the same corridor floor
walking and walking

the dust swept up
by a promise of
stereotony
sits
amid the lingering brains

cannot tell
who does the waiting

it might just be the conjunctions
checked out
of empty rooms

leaving displaced
thoughts
with heads hung back
and eyes closed

Une Amibe dans un Boyau

à la fois
on a visité la rue entre les immeubles,
un chemin pressé de béton
on a trotté le trottoir
avec des pieds mouillés
on a imaginé un zéphyr chaud
qui nous chuchotais des ponts qu'il faut traverser
un jour

ce jour
on a épinglé le ciel sous la terre
afin de pouvoir lire la carte de la voûte céleste
dans la boue sous nos ongles
on a entamé un passage
vers des empreintes pas laissées.