Under watery darkness with clear gone silence,
my eyes are slowly open and the illusion remains.
Animals speak without moving and
visions dissolve to silt, we are
the river growing still.
We are patience into stone.
My soul is flecks of sweat sent hissing through the fire,
weakness I hope will pour off abandoned-
you are behind me alone,
no longer breathing.
My fingers close on conversations of snow,
our bodies run off through the bitter cold
surrounded by brittle and sour words, acidic pitiful.
There is no great clarity here to slit your wrists.
We search for miles but cannot remember the world.
I don’t know. I don’t know
what we want.
Wrapped in leaves, bodiless and apart from life
and real sounds of living echo the way
with fossils of movement my fading sorrowful eye.
We don’t speak but stand naked and drowsy
seventy years apart and dying.
The waves close over our shaking heads
but I feel no commitment
to the vain charade
I’ve been here and wandered through distastefully.
I’ve been trying to reach you
with knotted strings and dust.
This moment remains alone, only.
I squat in the empty road
where ghosts circle a thin white bone,
soft murmuring hands, my blood shakes.
Our bodies are glass
which shimmers like water, darkly
and we disappear into each other
with hands outstretched and
charcoal blood, shut eyes sticky
with chance and doubt.