In the early dark,
Intermingled stirs shake and shake
Between the round uncertainty in the uprooted flesh,
It is mid-winter where there are blue peacocks,
And ringing dunes that carry onto the bearers of ice
In our face like waves, receded with flickers
That are evasive in our bones with ferity
Void of discovering dreaming, these fluencies
In evocative tremors, prospering the pigweeds
In the fallen dusk arcs upon the belts of snow,
Appearing to crawl, swaddled within a darkroom
In the depths of your mind;
In the dormant of a reseeded cold
In deep memory; stillness surrounds me
As an imprint of physicality,
An evolution in symmetrical shadows
Before the dusk, before the memory dies
In the world beneath our bursting shells,
Descending like the leaves of translating dandelions
Catching within the silence—has become old,
With an emergence of our wounds and bones
Cracked with the red of a mulberry
Breaking the skins, bruising the edges
Of this old world, quivered here in pieces
Of soil and sky in trailing
And curved yellow snapdragons
Within our insanities,
Falling from figures of flesh,
And components of mind drinking in the ends
Of fingertips—isolating, cold; a planted row
In migrated feet, dislocated by
An oblique world; dispersed every sound,
Who are we now? The bare of summons,
In the illusion of oak trees, scolded by confusion,
And the spines of the trees were lodged into
A toss of wind, sunlight that drew
A dark sheepskin, shallowed,
In the crevices of the fog
Spilling on the windows
Curling in blue creases
When there are no welts of snow
To see or touch left.

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Categories: Poetry

Tags: Art, Faith, Hope, Life, Literature, Lost, Poetry, Sad, Stream of consciousness, Writing