these fields of echoes

I sigh, saline, dripping wishes quietly over seashell altars, inhale time and reverie;

lone exhales draped over a derelict chapter, finding feathers to remember—

it is not lost that I wander

but in a story borne to evoke, and every page, every chapter is roots and stem, xylem and phloem, coursing in love through the veins of my being.

water billows in runaway time, reflections willowy and there's a litany in droplets worshipping our skin...

Are we awake now?

Are we the echo of a lone branch in a tundra?

Wires by wires through infinity, we run currents from the tips of our fingers, firing impulses past Neptune's seas, past the Kuiper belt, past dream and into

being.

a symbiotic esoterica harmonizing with mystery, plumose and haunting,

strings emit heartfall and veils of serein dripping as dusk kneels

before destiny.

—filled with eviscerated time, it skews the mind.

There are a thousand voids littered in concrete, labyrinthine, turned ouroboros,

we run in circles in the silo,

we cycle, we— the spiral of life, tied into every centennial tree-ring and coalescing tide, whirlpooling into the yawning solstice,

equating equilibrium —charted course haunts, compass falls deep into the silo...

I remember Alice...

We all remember something, but we forget the silo over and over again, it falls away,

it doesn't bend,

it never bends, somewhere in un-memory it stands.

We— hold hands, in a field that has no end.

like osseous fingers of a forest hag as she undulates in a bespelled trance around a bonfire,

or translucent green lashes of a siren as she hovers in that fog-wrapped realm of water and seaweed, her oceanite eyes brimming with untold tales...

kelp ribbons betwixt murkiness and light, swaying through liminal flow, shadowforms writhing into sun's echoes,

untranslated language rustling through each billowy strand.

day in un-definition

hovers, and

shadows

floor-dance.

like the moon, I wane and wax, poetic and juggling phases of myself, phrases that layer the inside of dreams

sometimes I trail light along the rippling edges of water,

and sometimes I draw the wings of night around my self and linger

under the gaze of infinite stars.

wrapped in layers of songbook pages, draped in veils of lines and clefs...

your pulse is musical, I feel for it within the acoustic effigy erected by an apt singer, the way his tongue flicks the flames of melody along the wicker-song limbs, rising and falling,

sexy

like your chest rising and falling, as you breathe while you sleep.

is a clockwork hubbub, grinding

ruts of cogs

and hummed trills

of pulse and marrow; tea swirls

tacitly in its mug, revelatory,

and it's humid.

and your arms feel so safe —

            an inflorescence that is a home, in each other.

the puddles talk

mockingbird cantillates its timely fashion, the citadel of silence crumbling

— hark! I am awake and uncloaked, minutes chastened by petrichor

and fleeting salvation.

forgetfulness sifting fingerprints over the trees, they whisper...

they whisper...

douglas firs so stern, echoes lie unsilent and reveries run amok,

what is a raindrop but a game of mirrors, a portal in a funhouse, a carousel that juggles the worlds.

There is a humming in the air, there is a humming

in the air.

minutes that are dust, and

we are souls of rebirth;

horde of tadpoles blooms

in the shallows, silently

they sing of life, synonymous

with our own human

transmogrification.

Heartbeat turns inflorescent

in these psychedelic dreams.

you'll read it, and

maybe you won't. Life

after all

is such an origami of moments, a magazine

of film photos

with a partially missing page

— it made it in a scrapbook somewhere,

or a diary, or a letter

someone wrote their partner,

you know the type, a travel memento

with many "I miss you's"

and the fluttery written hugs.

It

says "feelings" and "vulnerable"

and "heart upon a sleeve",

the kind of carelessness

love flowed in

somewhere in lazy summer days,

mixtapes, and ice cream

by a fountain, cuddling on a bench

as some kids chase soap bubbles

in a park...

It all sounds so easy, natural,

but it's really a dream

that comes while staring at raindrops

at a window, wondering

where you might be

and if you are blowing soap bubbles

aimlessly into the air

and listening to a vintage tape,

and, thinking

something equally romantically whimsical

about me.