Like the moth that resembles only dust gathered in its corner,

even flapping wildly,

my dream tells me I don't need to rush:

 

 

The light soft clouded into unity,

 

                                 my expectation a dependence

 

and I hurried myself into the waking

 

 

    called     expense

               and so all is gift-giving, whoever you are

 

in a circle,

    only this small portion gridded.

Ignoring empty space I double back:

                                 this little sunburn

                           

and so I sign the name

 

 

               no need

❦

                                                      sometimes only smile,

not lift my feet so firmly but lock movement into you.

                                                                  uncollecting

coated by the heavy air and sight

Now the fields are red and flattening before my eyes

jump into boxes and strike a jumping snake,

                                        law

     follow none of these

 

                          swimming towards you at dream speed in

                               the puddle I float on                    that brings me to you.

             a shiver              flaking

 

                                                      (saw one another)

I can't exceed the present tense, I barely achieve it:

close my eyes for help or dream or relief or the face

that I meet and call—

 

my margins are getting translucent,

filled with repose: fallen branches

scatter the driveway, the drain bubbles.

                      in a shaded corner / I see the lamps

              small sub-curtain movements.

                 I want to know their names:

❦

Sun speckled sides:         arrive     the present's warmth,

    trapped anteroom smell,

my light:                  furiously

in the sunny spread,

    get me into my pink shade,     lap of words

fading light:                     flat and closed

response the condition fleeing light:

the tunnel                              blinks dark,

I raise and lower a habitual itinerary

on which      light lifts me and I follow,

❦

and so I delay my fading, untimely                   marks,

a consequence of the instrument I spin and draw.

Then discover that night was wet,

morning shades dissipate into past hours,

                          a gravel catcher

to which my warp expels sweat and other extrusions:

morning feeling coming upon me

dragged along wet friction, small footprints.

     light rises slowly,

                                          what do trees hold when heavy with spring?

 

My plodding stays in these chambers,

along       repeating lines

of disagreeable numbers.

I was stupid in stallings,

tracking myself down

in avoidant route to my clearing.

 

              Find me in the wire whine

find fantasizing the opposite of travel—

 

 

quiet's clamoring.

I ignore my own promises,

❦

what good will they do me.

                    eye slow

and gives out-

            a warm color,

                        back-projected

itinerary

                margins of my content.

                                         gentle pull,

I instructed the sound to repeat,

 

I skirted policed space,

 

 

 

    the hour is a police copter whir,

 

now flee from it

                             MAGA hats,

                        warm

and pressing at my limits.

 

                                    in place

                animal

tranquility

❦

            believe more

that light can't wake me

                   falling behind,

unheeding the hour and the hours.

            a cry

broken and reassembled,

divided into several nominations.

                        Every route is escape,

everyone here is my friend,

now light flickers lightning in my eye—

the sky muddy

but not cold

                standing briefly there alone