brief paragraph abt being satisfied

I wanted to take an opportunity
coconut oil, the warm day
the supermoon, tonight, tonight?
I am always mooning, then
how is it, how it does.
I am a drying leaf
but I am fresher
& I am sweettasting, I know it.
luscious gusher
saying my goodbyes, timing them
alright, now
and really
full of it all, this time

& glad to be

we listened to yo la tango, remember them?

He will bring all of the candles

he said chocolate helps, jsyk

and she bought a bag of tiny tangerines, 

and I can see myself diving right into them

like when Amanda opened that tiny clementine

and she told me to look at its puffy section

like a little slug on her leaf hand

and its shell 

its pith a neon orange baby foam

and I put it between the rows of my teeth

and I teethed
and I teethed
all night

when I was 18 I listened to yo la tango a lot

in the tall dark dormroom

and I festered

(I asked you yesterday, as if this is a question, what do I do now

and you said,

wait

wait, and brood

and I said how can you wait for nothing?)

when I was 18 listening to yo la tango

I knew what I was doing

but I used to sleep till 4, when it would get midwestern scyscraper village dark

and now I am up at 4, before it is grey spring western light out

and I am very aware of the mountains,

big fool rocks

the continental divide

the crying light where the tears flow down east or west

and some get to your rivers, and some get to mine.

Maggie Nelson said something about waking up with your weeping, don't write me anymore to tell me about it

because she knows you're so in love with your weeping

or something like that.

And maybe you truly are

but I truly am not

I am not the type anymore

when I was 18 

I would scream into the bedclothes

I would rip & sob & cling & claw at my smoke hair

and my young face

and I couldn't now scream on the patio, in the livingroom, into the couch clothes

and throw up the young foam

my young brain foam

as my throat makes a sieve for it

and its goop pushes out, around, tries through the cheesecloth

to be swallowed, into the mash bod

or to be vomited

in bubbles & sobs

See now I'm 28,

going on 29

in about 20 days, I guess

so my brain is still there, it found my head again eventually

and my heart crawled back

slunk back, eyes downturned, embarassed,

out from where my bean stomach lives in struggles

and all of the organs 

fell back asleep

in their gooey cradles

paint scrapes by

is it a blow of a leaf, side, a machine a little tiller up a lawn hill. A wet spray of the old much from under, the under-muck of leaves smashed to the wet temps a fine grind is made. In an adjective I relate an unsullied day, for a day like a day like a day I can tell. Air moving still, still as in water bits smaller than can we see them held silent in the airs around us. Not a wind to blow. only tube machine make a wind that so blows sidewalks clean. realized dust for water almost, hung in the airs. Walking through them a face becomes damp. Damp enough can't not even to be touched. Dry is soft awhile whilst wet is life.

lean-to

It is too soon for one, not soon enough for others. I have a fresh tongue on me, like fresh tongue on leaf. Still a freckle of a beat of a brush against a soft facepart. Still white hairs across my cheeks whispered by a steady hand. Still, I hold in the air. Though a handless air brushes me by, a breezeless breeze floats around, a still remembrance throbs delicately (like a spider heart a beat), nada movement, not a gesture physical.

for #5

prophesies turned true

pictures, car rides desperate,

questioning a bath

for #2

beginnings, firsts or

necessaries, changes up

to nevers again

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

mwyn, or melodious

morllyn, or lagoon

moment, or moment

monllyd, or sulky

môr, or sea

mynydd, or mountain

atgof is memory

.............................................

diffeithwch is a desert