musings & scribbles

pixels, drowned-orange/shadowed-bright, stab through
 bars/through slick-sloped crests of curvatures
, these mappings ‘cross their points, broad
 to be but surveyors’ tools, haphazardous through

 most, simplest rules

pixels, drowned-orange white, stab through line’d slantings of the blinds, stars let drip in spark’ling majesties

through thick-lined, white/shadowed wall cut thin, constellations pierce, breaking bold-dark/orange to mimic dome, though room and droppers, fall’n, know more than eye can meet through generalities and gaze.

longing is best described
as true swaying of the heart
in want/in hope/in sight
of a returning rock for/to fill
the space swung in.

as much as i
love you, i
know not
your view
and,
though i
can/may find
way amongst
the brambles/branches,
i
cannot go beyond
what i know not
yet/
you.

you may
belittle your words
by misinterpreting
what you’ve said,
rearranging/insulting
them by
fooling
yourself
into holding them
at a distance
that is any further than
in

Held still, eyes shift from passage/from word to the lure of soft hum, and, darting, they shift from ‘bove to ‘low our bench, tracking eyes as tag and, thinking I no need to keep focused, pops between the planks/the boards and holds, to wait eyes return to book/to hands and, satisfied, they raise to be seen again, a turning of the game, as, now, I, hidden, hold from look, from shift, to see move of next and, they, displeased, lean in hov’ to me and, lightning-knock into, persuading me, a turn toward they and, in play, happy, they return to game ‘neath bench/from sight/to watch response, to measure moves as made or held.

so, you’re there
, i’m here
& there’s too much
between us to
leave it at that–

won’t you come & hold
this, a heart, beaten
to be tender/still,
as nothing lasts as long
as laughter between the
     veins, & nothing
      feels as does the unbothered
                               unminded
                           breath/a
                                    breeze,
                           made &
                                loved, to

                                        be

there is a she
for me.
i know not where;
i know not her location/
though her presence,
her laughter/liquid breathings
form on me a chill,
a warmth of breeze/of budding
pores brought lively–
and, though she is not here,
i know she is.
she exists..
or, if not now,
as she is in mind,
she will be, in time,
much more, much more
than finite words/definites
/much more
than thought of as now by me.

are you her? this
she whose lesson,
pressure,
rises me
to fluidity of thought
as though image,
burnt through dreams?

washing the face and
taken into account
is what diana’s said:
clean, rinse, moisturize.
on-top of that rests
the idea of earth,
barren/dry/sunken
and unavailable to life;
moisten the land, though,
and you have soil/
life/roots to grow

more.