honey drips east of the mountain, flushing skin and  spilling gold.

eye flat grins  the sun/moon hollowing  heart:  this and this: always, always  (you should be getting up.)  spore gathering skin lichen covered knees mossed over hair  eyes, chlorophyll green.  smiles, wide enough to bear.

it’s a long path to take; love makes and breaks. sun out, moon full  you rise and sleep through it all.

I remember the soft animal of you: an Imprint of skin. Feeling more than thought: Your dog warmth kept the world  Together; even apart.  Your tight arms rebuild cities From old moss, ill fitting skin.  Home is never lost,  You just need to begin.

The best poems you haven’t read: They're tucked away into crumpled receipts in lint filled pockets They're forgotten grocery lists those of which only your grandmother could've read.  They're knotted into other languages that you haven't learnt; translations a finger's grasp from full understanding.  (Because you'll never know full moonlight: true meaning). The best poems you haven't read.  They're locked away in journals in old attics, or bedside drawers,  In happiness/unhappiness too complete to be felt,  History too secret to be shared.  The best poems you haven't read: They'll always be lost. Some, before they were written,  Others smudged out of existence with wear;  As dead as their owners.  Some of the best poems you've read,  You just haven't understood yet; you haven't developed a like for bitter taste, an adult's appreciation of wine. Some of the best poems you forgot,  But what you remember, you love;  And what you needed, you saved.