When days are low ink, I walk to
your mind.
I remember the dearth, drought, the
picture
within; carrying it hurts you; I have
noticed gravel smile, confide in grays,
the
excellence of deaths, rare rest,
more grieving.
Now sunk in chains or aloft on
gusts, I
come to your face, I say less, much
on time—
climbing the good ink, wrestled
inside, at
beige patches, even lines, math as
love codes.
When days are good, I see your
wings, I rant
over the pain you lived, the hurt
you felt;
thereinto, a daze, much remorse, torn
riffs.
I remember the uneasy art, the
acne, doing assignments, sipping tea.
You have piano the flute, space-essence.
You sing at it, those reigns, the
utter breath.
I try to be silent; it might pour
out—
the deep darkness, the illumination—
as inside is a dance, a necklace,
sure
pain in patience, so hurt by the
forest;
thitherto, a trail followed in soul,
grand
violin, sullen cellos, more at
peace
with croaking in spirit, dwelling
in ponds,
eating algae, topicals on essence.
When days are low ink, I walk to
your mind.
When days are good, I see your
wings aflame.
I remember the dearth, drought, the
picture—
the art, the shame, trying to heal
by grace.
