Stream of consciousness

new moon

death of all silhouettes
when the new moon

born of lured tragedies
outstretched to kill


salved with fingernail lines on the egg, her baby. The agitation of her veins
makes me ask what images are morose?
I tried to be someone else
but I ain’t the robin in her nest
and I’m not Robin Hood; I grieve, my fingers starve for contact
as I see the roots like the snow sewn in martyred hems of the citrus blood-sun


a pilgrimed father

at the seabed of darkness,

his bones


the skull-fish;

the ghost of owl

forgets his repetitions

Early dark.

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

Frayed dreams (as one).

As the quarry impels us in silence
In the blue sanctuary
The side of steel, twofold
With a rise in the sky by the masts,
And our minds, wormed with
Ice, and fragments of speech,
For darkness was ceaseless