So Let Me Kiss This Beautiful Dent On the Ground and Think of Violins and Violins and Violins

File under: ephemeral work,
photograph&release program,
hold your breath, the observant
nature of evidence, after the poem,
not art/not a poem, not imagination
but the constant flitting memory
and anchorism through writing,
drawing, touching, and other
significant dark&beautiful
matter-ing of foundlings who
to this day still sleep under
kitchen tables to remember
faces, hands, and other shapes
memory&breath have made
and are naturally forgetting.

Yes.

File under: hand pressed lives,
itinerary notes while in Asia,
train stubs to keep, rooms
better off unlit, rooms where
a white dress circled a room,
where I said, “Right here,
she died right here.”
Leave me for a few hours
so I may resuscitate the ground
and stories about the aching 3rd,
4th, and 5th resonants
of curse&poetry.

Yes.

File this under:
a drawer made of stone
and other thousand pound
epilogues where you must
(you must) carry with me
because you know my name
and heard my intonations
of loss, liberation, and essential
catastrophe of hanging on
as if I am the last leaf
to surrender whatever light
I’ve taken from the sun.
As if I am the last fruit to fall
and forget that soil carries
traces of salt from our first
mothers.

Yes.

File me under:
morning, salve,
skin&bone,
boat, and home.

,

______

//am journal

//dec28th is around the corner

//listening to Goodnight