Between the day’s passage and the
Tenderness of night that cleaves you
To a remembrance shaken by god’s
Reckonings that accumulated like
Stones on the river shore, like beads
Of fire penetrating glassness of root
And weariness of things that surrender.
Incessant as the wind, growing fabric of air as
The whoosh settles down.
Incessant as the wind, gnawing out fungal roots
At the core of mottled being.
Incessant as the wind, groping at straws of lazy
Noons and evergreen nights.
This ruckus of storied time, passage of night
Styrofoamed day, meandering hushed blues
Crying noon songs of choked tears staining
The floor red, this ruckus of storied time that
Makes new the revelation, brings forth the
Trepidation, and shouts out the abdication,
This ruckus of storied time, this passage of
Grits stuck somewhere, finding not noon
Solace but evening shade, red with expectant
Markings etched on the face of a sleeping
Priest greeting you once again with open arms.
It is the I which toes the grain’s
Burden in revealing night upon
Night, in giving vapid vent to the
Inner dark and the outer dark.
It is the I which grows the pining
Upon the bark of rootedness when
Solitude is pretending to root for
The uneven solitudinous retreat.
If it is not enough, this passage of lugubrious atoms
standing as if there is no wall to silence the screams
If it is not enough, the morphologies of distance and
their formation of stars in the dark recesses of time
If it is not enough, those eschewings of sentences
which are like habits of the mind lulled into numbness
then the gradation of blue can be treated as shades
of violent greys and limpid yellows, then the fulfilment
of time’s unceasing gasps can be held in your fist
and stared at for a long time, as long as it takes.
Gathering just-a-bit-o moss 