dwelling portably

thank you for the spot
of english red bush miss
and yes, i prefer milk
and honey. and
if not for it i might
hadn't the time to think
and drift (eventually and)
knowingly and grinning
into the world of
thrice hidden bridges
and candied salmon.

reefer ridge

the trinketmaster

brilliance paints facade geometry a bit taller and facing east as hope crawls from its dens edged by dreamless sleep and hollow belly. an indigenous carving with china-made odds sits on sale amongst brittle wind-up detritus ordered upon a cardboard welcome mat.
---
we stroll through lost in thought of the girth of childbearing and tiny toe morsels so unbelievably alive.
---
we without thought cast lunch into the crumpled cap of the trinketmaster. he is asleep faceless and sunken into the shade of his chest and heavy concrete while the carving ungiven yet dances on one paw. it shrugs rare sun or common rain with dreams of altitude and shaping stone and clean forms of stories that outlast their vessels.
---
but we forget these stories. we forget their weight upon the life of the next born and the trinketmaster still sleeps and we still stroll feckless.

swollen pink

of it

full moon rising
three billion ways it
lifted and shrunk along
its arc. through silhouettes
of spring reaching branches and
in the soft falls of vacant dunes and
beyond apartment building shells
half but never asleep. though it
              was not these parts
these views from its kin
that compose it.
rather the earth gives
each their role to share
                together whole.

cherry blossom dream

i washed roots from plates
and called upon distant fights
and loved everyone 

naomi went out
seeking used white plastic bags
and returned with kites

SUPERMOON

air clean warm

windows open to the milk moon
breezes bid budding adieu. the
skin of this air is a random grid
of fruit cellars holding upright
their flagpoles in the wind.
a forest of indistinguishable hairs
grasping for paltry light they
sway in delighted unison and
whisper memories of deer spotting
and back seats' windows rolled
fully down for chin and left forearm.
my eyes would close to the pace
quickened while on roads between
picnic bench grounds and open
to quieted air and dissipated
momentum and to the occasional
odocoileus white tail spy i would
speak to silently and grin-tinged.

the north shore

three moons would
at least
rope six tides. these
hours after the february incessance
quit i could still hear
rivers lost to the underground
crashing ceaseless glacial falls. three
north shore beacons brought cold
glow
to the heavy air
that prepared for its morning descent
upon the city
a blanket falling in slow motion. three
beacons perch as kings
asleep atop thrones gilded. bats
and birds come summer
might know them for navigation as
young upwardmoving flock to
their factory powder come winter. three
peaks
soft guards to the crags and bluffs beyond
too tall and windswept for
their roots to ever adorn boots. this 
very wind is what battered
these peaks
open to open water
and to the unpatterned 
torment of ocean. water flows
and blows with the immortal workers
molecules of radon 
breathed and rebreathed by all life
this thin photosynthetic
skin
has ever known.

fallen frozen