each thing is many things.

i, in blue and marigold. 

i, in vain. 

i,

in the kitchen 

watching you turn
the act of slicing onions
into something extraordinary.

each day is many days.

put your hands on me, and

you will pass through. i am water, i am salt, i am 

fog. this is how time will move in our house.

each name is many names.

you are sugar, and wild, and lovely.

you are hybrid apples
brooding in a bowl, undecidedly green or 

rose.



i think that even sweet things cannot taste air 

or breathe light.

but you;
in you, there is the exhale and palate of the earliest morning,
deep in the forest,
silent, but eupnoeic;;
the way fog moves across the lake.

and when i look up at you, supine and sleep-lidded,
in the first and lowest bass-notes of morning,
awake only because i cannot bear to be parted from you
even
by sleep.

05/02/2012

Author's Note: entre los labios y la voz, algo se va muriendo // algo con alas de pájaro, algo de angustia y de olvido // así como las redes no retienen el agua. oh, oh,,

Posted on 05/03/2012
Copyright © 2024 Brynn Dizack