(I wrote you most days from the rainforest floor)
                                                                              This is where the                       
moss was                                                           
  ­                                                                 ­         
                                       and they were too

I am out of touch and missing all at once                                 unable to get back to the surface
swimming next to a blue flame
glowing ectoplasm glitters
the tour guide is a woman’s voice       under the stars and everything concave is inside out     far away from what it once was,
                                                            ­                              uninverted
happy is the uncertain                     I looked for you in the chrysalis       and you
                                                             ­                  were still wearing
                                                         ­                                 your socks
                                                           ­      
when you disappeared
I found them in my drawer three days later      tucked themselves in still covered in glitter from the caves
I had so many questions when I reached out my hands
stuck to the walls and swallowed my palm
                                                            ­  silicone and retreating light
it wanted me to stay in a time I could only help but leave
the artists gold leafed my throat like it was delicate and
ready to go on stage                                           wearing shoe covers walking and talking       gently avoiding          swimming their arms the foxgloves developed negatives backwards                                in gelatine                                                         ­                 over water
pasted down                         every darkness bright green lime green stinging                                                         ­  immediately
                                                                ­                             nauseous turning to stone                                      under the gaze of the walls.

although there are only
blue skies overhead
i can still feel
a prickling approach
of distant rain clouds
in the air

perhaps the moth
simply doesn't know
the strength of
its own wings
but the way it flutters
seemingly erratic
        in its choices
never straight forward
        in its direction
can be infuriating at times
as those silken sails
appear to force it
where none expect it to be
in disjointed circles
often far off course
only occasionally
will it find itself
exactly where it should be
whether accidentally
         or by design
its every path is filled
with calculated corrections
revisions and redress
in order to reach
its intended
that source of light
one way or another

tapestries woven of the stars
fading into our dappled sunrise
there, your wings carry me softly—
to be my dove, or my icarus?

I stand at the shore of an ocean
vast, uncrossable waters
between me and my salvation
I could swim, but for how long?

how long before my limbs give out
my lungs searing in my chest
metal in my throat
salt in my mouth

so I stay on the shore
(metal in my throat
salt in my mouth)
feet on the ground

a gentle patter of rain
tapping politely
at the window
not tempestuously
but imposing enough
in its constancy
a passive aggressive reminder
from the heavens
of our ultimate
lack of control
such a minor obstacle
and yet it tips
the scales of
what was planned
or hoped for
to something perhaps
unforeseen
not yet considered
i thought i had
no intention of
leaving the house
but find myself
rolling my eyes
with huff and sigh
cursing the grey
for ruining
that potential

by lunchtime
windscreens glisten with
newly welcomed sunlight
reflected blindingly
from droplets that linger
despite the fresh warmth
carried in the convective air
it no longer appears
to be "coat weather"
though the ground
is still puddled
to squelch or
splash underfoot
perhaps i could venture
outside after all
with a motivation
fuelled by this
latest change
but for all the blue
stretching the sky
there is still that
darkened mass of cloud
hanging heavy in the distance
unable to tell if it has
been weathered already
or is another downpour
yet to come

i would like
to keep bees
or at least
i like the idea
of keeping bees
to be honest
i know nothing
next to nothing
about all that
it entails
but it seems like
it would be cathartic
although their frenzies
may be calmed
by the smoke
movements must remain
slow and gentle
such fragility
must be tended to
   carefully
   mindfully
almost lovingly
i think i like
the idea of the peace
to be found in
those moments
there is a
shade-dappled spot
at the bottom
of the garden
that would be
the perfect place
for them
where the humming
of the hive
would accompany
the swaying of
the tree's
their gentle whispering
and the quietude
that would settle
beyond

That road I planned
Is merely a plan.
No dent, no mark,
No foot print of mine.
A clean canvass
With no acrylic colors,
An untouched paper
Without a sketch.

Sometimes I think
What road should it be.
Mine or theirs,
What should it be.

I go with mine,
I'll be happy
Right?

Când mă uit seara la stele - ea strălucește;
Dar când mă uit dimineața la stele - ea încă strălucește.

Cred că soția lui Heisenberg a fost cea mai futută femeie.