The more we bear witness
the more kaleidoscopic our closed eyes
til finally my lids could not be preached open
without promise of new colors.
we traversed the nation with stones.
One stone contained
the darkness of one night.
We call aimless
that which refuses to kiss us back
is body language.
To bend in all directions
is the fluid grammar of plants.
This is not a declaration
but a series of small appetites
housed deep within the eye.
We are still learning to look skyward
without thoughts of falling.
* * *
We all seek to bead our dreams together
into more than story.
That I couldn’t peel back
the praxis of a word
and sing inside its hollow,
that I couldn’t untranslate the breeze
back into fan.
A portrait of the interior
demands a darker shade of bone
is what I thought
looking into the eyes of a Rembrandt.
Between these slats of hardwood
shine lines of thin black ash.
The pattern repeats,
disrobing itself across the floor.
Outside my window
the moonlight is filthy
but the birds born of it