The streets fill up with audible snow until the sonar of love leaves us alone. Until the rust of noon sets us free to tumble these sheets in exhaustion. We pre-dream of peace only to resume living waking feeling the still-wet blackboard of youth on all sides but one, the side of dreaming.
Pink in the first few pages of days as if a name could rightly saddle what there is to be said in correct longing.
To a nearly deleted scene – the one on a dusty street, the cul-de-sac of roller skates chomp through stony days. It’s always some squinting part of the day summer. The leaves slick with May light and summer almost.
Things a boy can do and keep from you.
Squirming in the muddy ocean this morning I thought of you far away in loveland, the ink still wet in the sky.
Soon the first snowflake fell charting meaning. Hard thick branches frame the sky. It gets worse with the milk of two years feeding the same stream.
The description of hissing hidden in my timeline, the award light dim and again with you.
To stamp out desire then relive each broken foil. The cloud updates. We can breathe into the silence of together peacefully at last.
Steadily paper became twelve hundred punched holes. A golden outline of a triangle fell onto a soft blue tracing of a square.
No more ash smeared in wax. The elastic loose and comfortable. They set out to assemble a softer, gentler hammer.
Blue in the last few notes of years as if inflection could misquote dreams…
The empty kitchen part of summer with leftover citrus and salt. The wet around with thunder and summer.
Things an idea can do and keep from you.
Soaked in fog this morning, I thought of you far away in your own life. I’d have to stop myself from tripping through these tendencies.
Soon the first snowflake fell charting meaning. Hard thick branches frame the sky. It gets worse with the milk of two years feeding the same stream.
The description – these amenities and the freedom therein, without you. These mild peppers. Those bland perfect fruits. These watery tones themselves already, without inflection.
A wave burning. The palm leaves under the overpass. The staggering transformation of morning. The productive waste of longing.
This mode of fractional beliefs. That mode bereft of joy. This mode of parallel harmonies.
The windows filled with paper. What was the last year – the parade of – ambition of ambition. Desire of desire and so forth. This is an interesting idea to swim with.
Pointing, I meant you. No, not you.
Another pinch of snuff? These days the orange busting – bursting? and the recurrence of dawn associations with “new beginnings” leaning into a pitch. “Stop how?”
Year by year the warped authority of being flattens in the skillet, rises, then collapses. To become normal and invert myself and again bloom.
Clipped the air of worry and let it grow it. Amarillo leaves.
The wolf introduced
by three horns, your name
etched in stone, filled in with snow.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
