presented

drawn up by your joy of ladling slurps- new juice- in the sun wringing fingers through your steps and breakfast peace signs- your I am about to leave and when you wait, to stay, that’s all, sticking onto apricot jam. you were whispered at last night- to some surprise your mind is not inside mine. feeling like living through nods of yours some reason that we will keep going. it’s sense you make or i imagine it, myself, sensing underlying movement i hear from words i said i’m wondering if you live alone if i don’t come home

Some motions stopped into you, a relinquished moment with wildlife back home or missed glances at the nodes between branches on your favourite trees. Nothing wrung you out like holding dead things in your palms. Ripping yourself away to the cold outdoors did not give you wind to whisper answers over your skin. No milk drank gave you any muscle you wanted, each habit pulled let each step move firmer, and no hand- gradually tugging you back in a smooth ellipse, returning with placards of home-land dusty ground-cover, a ripped-up house to work under and old growth to strip- turned you over, ran its fingers over new wounds from rain or could tie your momentum down with no string. Mistakes of your blood found their way. No sudden revel of this world’s electricity can send you the connection to back home- you have no things to learn, in quick turns of maturation all light was shown out. Your loss is not love, it can dissolve in the cracks in your cultivation and lie down in your scattered debris.