the other half is always right

half of me cried out
to the other half in doubt
saying: why didn't you think of this sooner?
but by then it had been done-
we were both back on the run
in search of the heartstring tuner

catch 25

it's just as you thought it would be
except for that last part
the part that took you right
back to where you
first drove away
and you thought you were finished
when you finally turned over
but instead you
somehow stood your ground
while so much of the rest of you
just kept moving, leading
one reckless foot in front
of the other dragging behind
and noticing,
you find it's not as you thought it would be
except for that last part

some firemen maybe

we're making bubbles with our fingers
and the tips of our tongues
we're sliding forward
in every direction
and when you smile
we laugh together
imagining our funny fates

you're really soft

a thick cotton grew over my insides;
heavy between my lungs and heart.
it's spreading down my spine
and over my spleen-
wrapping up my intact appendix and liver.
when all of the edges are softened,
perhaps it will stop...
or expand
to 100% luxurious cotton fill.

sharpening stone

eyes closed
with a backwards laying of hands
over cool AM nothing
pouring through the window screens
her tongue navigates the sharpening stones
illuminating the way home
with each word forming
mindful carbon
shaping the space
for the next swathing of the sharpening stones

who are they?

they've been looking through
old photographs,
letters and books-
it is not clear:
were they trying to find something
or lose something?

i want to fight you

the circle patterns popped up again
joining ends where ends join
even when the sheets are freshly cleaned,
still warm from drying
my feet feel-
and my toes are-
and i want to fight you
so come out of your self-induced coma,
put on your nicest clothes,
sing whatever song you dare-
i'm waiting here
where the ends of circles join
and i want to fight you.

we are hunters

last thing:
we are hunters
each dusk
when the sky fills with eyes
we lower our heartbeats,
still our limbs

we are hunting for you
in every recess
in the soft moss
and over rolling hills

first thing:
we are hunters
each dawn
when morning thinks to come
we look for you,
our bows drawn

untitled

night birds-
why can't they sleep?
crying out from certain stillness,
they urge the hot winds: stir,
we call your clouds to weep.