years ago in the clean, sticky summer, she found a little flea, (a cat was likely sneezing moments before) moving tinily inbetween her fingers, could have squeezed a little more firmly but filled a glass with partly water, dropped it in and watched a creature stop swimming, or, thinking it could walk on the water, fly through.

i am caffeinated again, finally after all these years; a drug that makes all other loves possibly, utmost. resting heavily on your shoulder i missed your eyes but remember them.

wondering of late of commas of error of poetic license, letters reversed so artic you lately. naked trees, a tiny obsession with that, the biggest leaves so that i can hardly see you hiding behind one of the smaller ones. we are sitting on a great rock in the autumn sunshine and singing an alphabet song (but not that one) and only hours before i watched a full moon to accident distraction, even bigger than a clock ticking at half mast. what i meant to emphasize was the size of the moon, shrinking by three times by the time you had woken. we are all awake now, the moon gone by noon, and hourly i find tiny remnants of prehistoric revelry: a baby dinosaur's orb!

a sad nightmare, getting weepy now. aprevious holiday, artfully seeping sabotage. winds roar hidden in an sheltered spot, a grass sleeping horizontally, living in the seventh day of fall, halloween looming phosphorescent.

misery is a song

as a little one, sleepily singing in shady sun, a day that could be just perfect, and is it? difficult in telling at present. a drenaline, a screaming neighbor, spooky and, anothe rone.

i asked you what you were thinking about, sitting on a sidewalk, chalky hands, said, just thinking about her, what she's doing. i'd forgotten how simply a tiny mind can work, en joy at knowing i can usually know, now, exactly what's at the edge of it.

not from today

some eyes phenomenally sleepy, waking up with a crying eyes, looking alluringly depressing today. darker and cooler inside so much that i wouldn't dare hear an interruption, a grudge gets big enough to keep around for a while, my charming history revived.

from books i can learn the spleen to a whorling circle shot out of the top of my heads. each one goes into a nother infinitie, infinite numbers of those shotted trajectories sideby side. and a waste of some time i dreamed would be jittery in the good way. this morning i shook hungrily, romantically nostalgic for a day when i watched the leaves falling for the most dense hour, yellow. the shortest season, kissing on a sidewalk, sleepy and crying.

my neck n yours, fingers dirtier than feets, sinks, kitten ignores me, in short.

sleepy and nearer to the floor, it's dusty, twitching eyes and i'll rub them! baseboards, basketball, books, a bike's tires are flat. b is for babies, beets and biscuits in the floor of the cobwebbed closet.

elevated living, kitties missing something, dust, walls, sun, that feeling back then

it feels like fall today because my sweater's sleeves show out the end of my jacket's, a warm cats in the sun and my cold hands. bigger than that, tragedy's at bay, new beginning's a stretch but can be imagined, that spirituall way.

also, a list of names, waking to relief that i knowed the good ones. embarrassed i recounted, deaf ears, meaning little to nothing.

dracula and i are weerily useless, sleepy hearing affirmations and i thought with love, noticing unexpectedly, about the babies taking first steps. slightly gaunt in summer shorts i rubbed my eyes and said some things, forgetting what.

the projections of a plan, starting: diagrams of diversions, consistently humiliating and utterly silently private, keeping to myself the ways i can lie out a chart of one through 26.

getting feckless with my words, now, it's ten until two. divided into three, segment i agree on your beauty, drugged into brevity and walked away. a quick look in seven or eight wrong directions, the wrong smile, having been misplaced in nearsightedness. dark and beachy, a sleepy confession toasted, one and two sets of twins, i manifested a double, know it's really you, and both of yous knows it too.

today i remember many stories, wnt to hear? wandering how my mind's just gone blank; but imagines a project with an optimistic start, catching it at just the right time's a most importants.

February

i've got it, finally, mostly sure: subtle and pitiless, me, dried eyes almost like they felt that way all along. less and less of myself feeling, oh, again, and you! i see you, those birds have confused the natural progress of things, little chickens hatching in a shiver, february now, two days of holidays and i figured that magic would have it that today something clicked in, romantic and predetermined. i heard the error in the day, saw you, back to that: i know i'm the only one who has seen that your eyes and your lips match exactly, oh and your skin, and the color of your hair too, all of them sitting there in plaid. pretty, in th eopen window of a valentine hangover, the beautiful one though, woke up with fingers sleeping in warm absences, too perfect not to ruin.

waking up, sleepy sounds dull, drone, touch, wrongly kissed. mood dumbly undisguised, and charmed in plato-nic flattery. beautiful again, i made something you didn't see.

everything gonna change

i was just sitting here and thinking about a memory, vague and broad, of being sixteen. driving and feeling excited about each thing, little, i was myself. and then if someone wanted to hear what i knew, like we had never shared such simple things before, ideas that seemed big. sitting on the hoods of our cars, feeling so good at understanding our ideas.

so then, this thought, more specifically wondering how much harder it is to listen when we're not so enchanted anymore by our biggest realizations. i keep having them, finding them more difficult and less interesting to share. so then, this: what if i jst kept them to myself, like would they still be grand, true, and important? keeping me mouthes shut, now.

one month later, i am caffeinated, the day like yesterday, more or less. in that good way, the pollyanna police sort of outlook. it's just about all i can do, no, i can pretty much do each of the things i've planned for myself, each day. roundabout, i have said little to nothing.

but here: i know some secrets, about me and you, too, whoever yous are.