The dove and the grass share

a genetic relationship.

These things that fit.

I fit with the night sky

where candles manufacture

classic scenes.

There is a constant

banging in my head.

Not sure what it looks like.

I wanted more.

The green light rushing in.

But the light is strobe-like

against the pane.

I am lost inside it

and have been traveling a long time.

My compass spinning.

So I let go of the world

and the world came back.

The sun leaves us homesick.

It is the mundo of existence.

Hangman wait,

I am sick with sunset

as I wait for the past

to recuperate

lines into a beloved.

I awake to a wanting

other than time.

To see past oneself

over here in a poem.

Sound winging.

The world will burst

into green and fall to dirt.

The dirt will green

when the colours come back

into the words

and these colours speak

not for me but for you.

Thinking of all the people

thinking of people

they won’t see again.

And so it goes, high noon

where I worry labour

and its discontents.

I hate hubble photos of the sun,

it looks so fucked up.

I mean, look out man,

the world isn’t stable.

A dog whimpers

in the house next door.

These elements nature.

The orders of spring,

for instance, confuse

the speech mechanism.

The lodestone came singing

but the breakage

in the signal was permanent.

Middle of the night

electrons hurt most.

This is a metaphor.

Though I hurt and wonder

unhinged by maybe

and wave to the unconscious.

Punctuation like damage.

Damage like applause.

The hum of the fridge

is all there is.

Somedays, truth is.

I don’t got a clue.

I was in the midst of death

when I wrote the poem of life.

I didn’t know.