matter

what matters 

nothing is real real 

everything a dream dream 

dreams are real 

birds & branches 

wind & water 

this sun 

this age 

a dream that dreams of a bike, a movie theatre, my dad & you 

sometimes it rages 

sometimes it floats 

this sun 

this age 

this moon 

tuck the dream into the branch and await the bird 

-fucking music- 

moments tinged with golden difference 

we were real we were a dream 

sometimes raging 

sometimes floating 

a bike, a movie theatre, my dad & you 

unpack the dream

sort by color 

     the moments

     the age

     the evolution of self 

goddamit 

the sky changes

the dreams come 

the music plays 

not better without you 

just different

 - somehow - 

i am becoming the sun 

the wind 

the water 

the branch 

the bird 

the sky 

write it across the pink morning sky enough times and the story sounds like mine 

 

the spell of the full beaver moon

 whisper your secret upon my skin 

so i become feathered & eternal 

some long-legged crane watchful in a golden field 

transformation comes with pain 

corded & bound to earth 

your breath tattoos a silver oath 

smelling of earl grey & time 

what is this season? 

how shiny the scales as they creep & cover these aging bones 

sshhh 

only ghosts come her now 

only the feathered ones who can touch the moon 

aconitum napellus

deep-blue
necromancer
tucked along the crease between worlds
pastures
plains
and sunrise sofa cushions
whatever 
discarded in feather canyons & forgiveness
winds still as morning turns pink-gray
paused here on the cusp of snow
emptiness feels tight--boa constrictor tight
sorrow purple rolling up the tendrils & traces of time
tick--tock
tuberous nevermore to ponder the space between leaves & leaving
white-blue this day
this whatever 
my body ceramic-electric
still
stone

surrender

to feel real

somewhere in the pocket between the branch & the bird

lies a velvet truth  

soft-secretly-intimate 

a knowledge a knot a night ringed with a burning smell 

of light & dark & winter's forecast

a hollow pressed upon moonlit grass 

autumn leaves carry the scent of pine-love 

lingering in dreams 

caught 

somewhere in the pocket between branch & bird