acraein

She dreams of a month of yellows.
And I feel the vines of my past come loose.
A crease in the map, like a nerve in the tooth.
A hum like trains, bright like cellos.

I hear the guts of a truck through the pines
following poles of telephone lines.
I look at the blue fractal cutouts above.
I quicken my pace and tighten my gloves.

Keep calm it was only a nightmare,
A lifetime a light-year an hour ago.
Lay your head down and focus on snows
that soon will tuck in the years.

This house of flies
I spun.
If I could turn back time.
If I could un-spin the sun.

The calm of cool undone.
Spool un-spun to pools of wool.

Isn't it though the perfect rhyme?
How much more could I need?
A softer dough still rises fine.
There's water for every seed.

Through halls of wax I run.
If I could turn towards time,
If I could un-sing the sun
And just be done

On this world so many days
take my hand as we change.

I tried to scrunch up my face
and photograph this time and place.

But everybody knows
context makes those old photos.

And everybody knows
I lost mine years ago.

Is the world getting colder
or am I getting older?

Am I a feather?
Or a soul with
the reigns in my hands?
Balancing
the hope and the nether
On the beach
I could watch crabs forever.

Am I much better?
Or a soul worth
more than a grain of sand
In infinity
I coped with it better
On the peak
I could watch clouds forever.

All my life spent at the seaside.
Looking out not looking inside.
My feet are sinking in the dry sand and
my face has drooped; still got a few more years to lend.

In my dreams the light shines everywhere,
no lighthouse not street lamps here.
The oceans make the sky glow green.
You pick me up and skip me in the sea.

I am drawn to the deep.
Opposite of everlasting sleep.
Well my heart skips and your heart beats. 
We're circling the skating sink.
Sparkling spires and beaming crystal caves,
miles under gently lapping waves.

So hey you know I think I found my friends.
I think I'll reprioritize some things.
All of us will circle in the silver sink.
All of us are skipping on the radiating drink.

Sit by your window urgently.
Close your eyes. Body move with me.
Mouth the words spoken like a dream.
Wind on the panes, cracks in the beams.

Decades ago it hurt to sit
hurt not to live. Forgotten sin.
Taking my seat it's flooding in,
Imagining being young again.

Finding with every passing year,
every hard day eroding fear,
sorrow and joy just shadows near
towers of long gone yesteryear.

Searching prescriptions far and low,
swims is nostalgia's undertow,
counters to queenside O-O-O,
pointing out all the tones I know.

Clawing it back from wasted youth.
Starlight grows tired of racing to
aid me when I need calming hues.
Hunters have all got things to do.

Experience pure joy alone
throwing shit into the water.
Scream at every passing wave.
I may fade but never falter.

Watch humanity grow grey hair;
avoid reflecting with some dumb show.
Then I see white light break apart.
I snag some straws and head for home.

Jealous of nesting crows just
grabbing passing hair and shouting.
Don't cry, they're just lullabies
and songs sung sweetly at the ending.

I ripped the pages from your bible so
you built another warehouse on the water.
Sigh at every passing wave.
I might fade and I might falter.

Who loves Isabelle?
It was written on the wall
with the haste that they
couldn't bear to be away from her at all.

Would you paint my name
Down by the railroad tracks?
A sign so fine, magnificent,
but subtlety it lacks.

There was a time,
not a faraway age,
I'd think to scrawl your letters
in the indent of my page,

but the shake in my hand
was so profuse,
I tried and tried
but it was no use.

I sat with some tea
for my next session.
I borrowed words
from obscure professions,

and mythology,
and sprung rhythm prose
juxtaposed with
crocus flows.

So covered up
I couldn't tell.
Someday I'll simply sing,
Loves Isabelle.

Isn't it strange how
memory culminates?
Every piece of familiar
you've fallen through
has forgotten you.
The beams and the bells
that make you
gone invisible.

Remember the days I
had the cadence of
a mountaineer?
eclipsing undulations
in awkward motions.

Life is not a whisper.
I am not a hammer.