What was it?
The fleeting foretaste that
sent passion spiraling,
like the drunken flight of a day moth,
into the depths of this layered
This kind of chaos is a self, sustaining
refuge in the unseen-
the untouchable fist
folded into itself.
Wings drawn to candles burning-
Is this resilience or resistance
This is what we do now.
an innate stumbling
toward the same archaic thing-
or are we being chased?
Entering another space to grow.
How can I say it’s about time?
When skin breaks at impact +
the fleshy pink exposes itself to
the idea of what happened first,
now, a scab/blister/scar forming.
A bird lands on a tall tail of grass
and is slowly lowered to the ground.
Is this time or gravity?
Falling or being pulled?
And is this what we write about?
Why we claw at each other at daybreak
when the Sun splits our shadows,
beckoning our return.
Isn’t it in the morning Light
where stars meet their darkness?
Are we not governed by a sky
that is fed by its own reflections?