at the window
the temperature plummets, rockets.

subjects of dread
duck and dart in darkness,

shimmers of shadows.
outside the house
on the other side 
of the old pane.


i have stuff.
to do.
to offer.
so much stuff.

we drift and grip
draw lines
forget our songs.
lulled, lonely and lecherous
we wait.

i can’t possibly learn all of your names.
ruin, resilience, rhinoceros,
posterity’s pronunciations are too pure 
for my throat.

i linger in liminal time
savoring the lie of
saving the earth
before the knowledge of loss
becomes the language 
in which my choices are cursed.

we’ll blind monsters
so many screens.
and when the screens
finally die or come alive
we’ll have recourse to streams ~

rivers of relatives
we’ll hold fast our tribe 
through the floods,
and for a while 
nourish, lament, and touch each other.

shatterers, scatter your fragments.
i see through wholes, 
i merge the holy abyss.
when our lights fail
we’ll count stars.
when our aquifers empty
we’ll drink love.

it’ll probably be tomorrow morning.
i would wake up early just in case.

swallowed by the superstorms of gas giants 
sea and sky coming at the same moment
moving from taupe to mauve to maroon over eons.
seeking sexual encounters 
with similarly experienced 
storm eyes.
we’ll time this too.

doesn’t it feel good to grow peaceful?
responsibility slides
like oil through a pipe.