In the garden, you lay
on a single blade
as darkness binds pockets
of falling light. **VOID**
You see evening as it drops
its diary. Glimmer, over here.
Over here, my forehead is found
pressed between two stones. Impressed
by the glow, I see it all without you.
No one makes mortals shine like this.
Shimmy.
Clouds unmatched, unmasked—
caress me. Moist-givings
given to our tongues, seeking out
the eye’s salt mine. Things appear
in the wrong places (the wind).
Before you sleep, you think
of the undone. Tell me, again,
why I am here. Touch me
with the softness of a vein. Find me—
I’m over here—looking for better light words
than the ones that start gl- and shhh-…
Analysis of Whatness, of Beauty, of Beautification
Published
The Failures of a Non-Performer 