you have yours, i'll have mine

I will hide nothing from you
I will tell you the honest truth like only
I know how

Here on this white I am
Three hundred and sixty degrees made quadrilateral,
Made rectangle white

If you listen close you will despise
From afar I make an altogether
Different sound

If you hear the sound you know
The words, the song, the cry
The hollow and the dry

Call me as you know the sun
Remember me when you see
The moon. The last of night

I remember you close then
Then, all of us are skinned
Knees and concrete conviction

Maybe all of us don’t remember
Well enough to call our own
Maybe we are shared as shapes

Soft, white focus of thick line
I’ll focus as I remember
As I remember the lines

You know the sound of tread
And wheels, asphalt, yellow line
Thick leg in midst of limit

No allowance of time
Can permit shared understanding
You have yours, I’ll have mine

A man remembers himself in moments

A man remembers himself in moments,
those moments I remember with you.
Dear baby bird, your wrestling skin,
gaped mouth and fleshy neck.
I know you now as silent, stone
s whimper before a breath.
No gust of wind will fill the hollow
bones of mother's flight.
But sleep, sweet, lifeless winged song
in the sunlight of the night.

A man remembers himself in moments,
those moments I remember with you.
Young mountain man, hands like glass,
stretching despite the light.
The music moves us cordially;
rhythm, hectic, and just right.
The moisture dawn and dewy grass,
the pilgrim and the plight.
Airport scene, no leaves of green,
A hug––but not so tight.

A man remembers himself in moments,
those moments I remember with you.
The stretch of skin, the simple green,
A rack of solid stripes.
Crack and break, triangle schemes,
angles loose and tight.
Right in the heart, ball return,
quarter slots, cheap push, cheap night.
We show ourselves the beginning,
the wings before the flight.

Reflection

In the moment
I am too overwhelmed
to notice, appreciate,

the polarity of emotions.
I am submerged

in the ocean`s pounding
splendor and am incapable
of hearing the deafening
crumble of earth.

Or I am carried swiftly
along the aromatic
path of love and
ignore the ever
persistent, lurking,
but just as beautiful
presence of heartbreak.

Just as I am
buried, insulated,
in the grinding
gnash of depression,

I long to feel
the corresponding beauty

but again, the
enormity of the
dense ocean slams:
unforgiving, relentless.

I feel nothing.

Only,
the weght

against jagged
breakers, sucking
the world back
into the ripping void.

Oh, I dream

of your wisdom.

Oh noble

saint of my heart!

Woman of mirrored
emotions, I long

to hold your
words in

the palm of my
hand, consciousness,
evoking them
into the pupil
of emotions, thoughts,
as the glamour of the sun
sets and as the
earth shakes, seizes,
and sputters in sorrow.