.45

in this quiet

we are ghosts

twitching eye – wet lip smack

breathe

breathe

be gross – fuck

be this great fantasy

just don’t forget to breathe

you only play this game

once

raise hands

step

step

roll to rock and to sea

to see with squints

in this dark

that will soon be chased

away

away

with fire

away

breathe

breathe

let the other one breathe

to be gross – to fuck

never step away

from this gracious silence

just don’t forget to breathe

breathe

twitching eye – wet lip smack

breathe

breathe

By degrees the cringe

grows with the expectation of light

just don’t forget to

fuck

Goblets

In a melting pot,
into the wind,
bearded snow-flakes
tumble and blend.

In a Wichita banquet
the legs are erect
to a taste of new
flesh and warm wine.

In that cave on the lake
there’s a pillar, a stake,
that leans with the breeze
ever-rising.

In a goblet of rust
at the highest, gold peak
to a sun we can cheers
and the moon butts in.

In a rattle of staves,
decorated with shell,
salt shines the silver,
infinite grim holding.

In a melting pot,
into the wind,
into fleece
and for getting.

To Yield

To yield and climb
these buttered-rung heights
is to be something
above that station we have known.

This yielding is to
break the hands that hold
shoulders facing a
tired, setting sun of growing fire.

The yield of hope
is necessary when we know
what mistakes will come
to not collaborate but to eviscerate

and yield for nought
if you do not know. As the tired
limbs of trees glow;
that this is not make believe.

Forever in a yield to
whomever makes the
future a door ajar.
To which we yield in creaking hinge.