our ghosts.

our ghosts accompany loneliness... mirrors of distant memory      find to the dusk like at sea      a memento in a dream      that eludes me and floats...      Orange blossoms into Ophelia’s violets and the granitic rocks      rush to the red dust for how quietly time has passed  through the statuary of rock … Continue reading our ghosts.

once a tree stood.

tread for days      blood pours in a drowning      diving into oceans. A murmur      in the stillness of the sea absent in the lunula white, weeping in the dying of the eventide      may you decide to leave as the crawfish float in unyielding waters,      delusional, still seeking the innocence of the … Continue reading once a tree stood.

into loneliness.

I broke away from the ocean, in through our eyes, the waves at high tides, the roccia parts and splits where Moses split the Red Sea. In the womb of wind,           limbs and bones outline the fading star,      and the world seemed to drown in yellow velleities of loneliness. Eyes to the dream, … Continue reading into loneliness.

of memory.

I am dream-bound      to the weeping mother of an ocean shore, my shadow is darker      than the prose tree of mind and desire           a prospect of inner lunacy and death;      the clam’s mouth is lighter between the sun, into the silence of blue willows      to the inmost bones of creation … Continue reading of memory.

te amo.

A temblor, a rock by which is drawn together by the little tree in arms of darkness           May darkness;                in the blue perch of the eve,                      to sleep in the burial                           of the star, A leaf falls      pooled on its legs; ersatz silence           in a mind with a hole … Continue reading te amo.

out of reach.

A wish, these solitudes in dark wept, midnight                exits in a dream, torturing you; emerges      in oceans, as if the face of the sea-light                is in a trance of wander, a dark mind urges       this end of game; the half-lit stretch devours death quietly in hyacinth winter as we left;                … Continue reading out of reach.

A sea becomes.

Of one memory, one for the end of the dark does not lie, I will not lie in it; darkness perfused I shut the window; here he bleeds, here he lies, though nothing is there. In furrows, mercy, it is laughable. The Earth succinct in waves in a lonely larva the dead poet’s dreams. Stand … Continue reading A sea becomes.

no promises.

         The sea and mind                      in gelid movement acquiesces to the euphoria           in the distant laughter      of gradual woven lines of darkness; let it die a thought in the consciousness of bare winter      after dark and dark a derangement in the cold      falls inside glistening      we’re hiding in the silence; … Continue reading no promises.

“Pretty Little Sparrow” by Lauren M. Hancock.

Warbling, a pretty sparrow, she’s come to visit thee, to spread wonder and good tidings, perfection uttered, pure beauty to be seen. She scratches around the back garden, throwing her head back, intelligent eyes glinting occasionally, she is here with great promise, her effect is really something that needs to be felt to be believed. … Continue reading “Pretty Little Sparrow” by Lauren M. Hancock.

My Monster.

In a dream be it my monster in the eyrie of leave-taking be it my death for the throes into the sea; my monster in the dark lassitude unsure but illuminated in which there is the torpid leg of maple sap warmed with hisses of the sea; my monster through branches befalls me.

Flowers for you.

flowers for you bursting like a ghost; red and white violets that were in a market shop your eyes hunted them and they were yours; as the street calls out in loneliness the telephone replays with your voice engraved in a blue marble vase by the sea gone.