The tree of apricot.

the waves in the dying of the dark

by frozen, alluring dreams when you’ve never dreamt

unsheathed upon each layer of rock that bleeds out by daylight

where we see the blood drift, sliced in a sleepwalking geyser

the dispensation of mid-summer, choked upon the shoreline

‘where have you been?’

I say, ’nowhere. It could be winter for all we had known,

roasted upon the grounds—little slopes

of rocks cutting through our skin on our mocha boots,

the twist of oyster shells discolored from the sea,

the quiet ocean, almost dead and petrified,

and the streets no longer filled with people;

it is dark. It is consumed with streaks

with the plumes of twilight, and we partake

in the finality of loneliness, the black fantails affix in freedom

bred in the sleepiest poison that rises, shrouded in the season winter

but it does become absolute, and it is not immortal…’

the tree of apricots, terrestrial in the salty wind,

the locusts, the diaphanous beauty in the summit of ash,

was it dry winter? Have we not known,

but only seen the sheer blindness, another end,

by the tragic shadows, there it is,

with it still, listening in the shore,

but descend none the less on the loneliest, careworn world

a compass of the strange world in the honeysuckle sky

dreaming on each visage, continued to descend,

a footpath of light, “breeding and death,”

shrouding dreams, when why, I have never dreamt

in the pure creation, remaining in solitude,

for what is there shall we seek,

the abstraction of the sea,

the death of a seagull.

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