In that former innocence
a second sun bloomed
in my heart, and I
tucked dreams
and hopes
within my small fist
a moth within-
I held it
tense,
in careful regard.
Sometimes
I would tear, slightly
a ghostly wing
having
no space
in a hand to
move:
I shook or would
startle.
And so I began
when it was night
and I could hear the
urgency silenced
day-to-day
to still squirrel away
each fold of brain, the
tender stomach
delicate bones of a toe/
all beneath my pillow
where I would remember
whenever
I could rest
and today, there
I hold my hand
in sleep, reaching
feeling
something
alive
in my hands.
Tag: dreams
many worlds
All the reasons the heart couldn’t form,
a humble stem/kitsch in your mother’s attic:
there’s a hundred hours left
still,and the sun won’t really set
just sway into someone
a world away,
looks like you, looks like I,
holds a star like space holds/
limitless.
Even how love, was the baby frog I kept
in my pencil case to bring
along to school,
‘little buddy,’ because the softness
of empathy is there before words
get in the way
but only realized when we talk about it.
It’s likely not many notice
the beauty of someone young
holding their space fully/
or how outside of god
we hold the words of many gods
we have loved in our memory:
I still will sing
at the end of the world
walk into storms the same way
a ghost can only be ghostly.
Eat the cake! I really think it is fine
and to love peculiar things
like tiny frogs and funny-nosed sloths:
because love informs when chaos
gentle at the gate is hot
and all-too-ready.
us, mirror
The way of a mind like a seed
on the wind floats up
instead of with the wind
somehow, or people born
wedged in sidewalk cracks
deep away from the sun
know where happiness
resides tumbling
upon its arrival:
in this I feel almost
a lucky misfit.
Even a self divided is
scattered like pages
lost within the house
with no binding.
I see windows in every room
that inform nothing except
where I have arrived from,
and, I, in every room
stitch a binding, day-
in and out, am
surrounded by a puzzle
of words on paper.
But aren’t us the
song? Aren’t us the
dream and
attuned to truth:
the paradox of remaining
genuine when a melody
unfolding.
In Due Proportion 