For that is only what we seek.

The roads, the valleys, the ripened dreams in solidarity, To a handful weaved of a ghost aubade in speech Evoking contingent flames unmourned, and embraced As the shaken birth from the morning, I starve the feathered dreams, As I no longer follow through with the nightlong autumn near the glass, I hope we don’t forget each other, and that we will remember The wind that passes through the roots, and the river rocks that sought for better dirt

A dream suspended from sanctuary.

The partition of light slides upon the red, pale rocks shielded by the cluster of streams, a fossilized hue of the starlight in the refusal of blustering dreams. A mere smudge of waterlogged forbidden Arcadia—tasseling a present vanishing in exile a solemn midsummer darkness prowling the streets in your memory.


Winter beats the cold orchids into the wind that is frail as bone, Where memory passed darkly as the ocean-white dream That is the faint mesa that trails of rocky red in the sun-set, Which is the winter mid-dream on a night of silence, my sorrow again, That will dwell in faint winds during the late dawn Blinded by the hyacinth that gave silence within the moorland

As I’ve Forgotten Between the Wind.

Like soil with collective stems of a crooked rock That brushed your fingers, all dampened, That a mother would tell you to wash up, Hurry on; but as I’ve remembered, An olden, washed face, only ashen in lengths, As I’ve forgotten time in between tonight, And the best the day had hummed The song of the copious endorphin springs