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.

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,