Daybreak

Selfish somnolence

regardless cats crowd my face,

my hair, fresh baked bread.

Today’s plans, not much,

baring skin in the sunshine

heartbeat in bird song,

austinite, suns voice

swimming deep into a moon

quenching from the heat.

A thin scent of pollen,

something much bigger than hope

sways clear ethos.

Most don’t see the stars.

Boreas takes, wants it all

beyond suns setting.

Stars are everywhere

and all the ways to see them

mapping the ways to

immortal horses—

meadows swayed with bells and chimes,

longstanding zephyrs

looking westerly,

moist pollen breezes stagger

undressing young love.

Gripping all the birds

mistral sky’s, its persuasive

ways hang on loosely.

When I die I will

come back as unspoken wind,

acquiescence murmur,

a trojan filled horse.

Mayflies have twenty-four hours

to love in silence.

Lose I held a rose,

thorny an ant on its stem,

ill-omened stirring

I’m tired of words,

the way they look back at me.

Shooting stars, fire back

angry, helpless, scared—

hating the way I see war,

hopeful I write poems.

Black rain in Iran,

the presence of history

tangible by touch,

sure, she said, it rains

like it would be always rain

or was it close too.

Within a flower

preparing to love our ghosts

pollen dust and bee’s,

in shallows, tadpoles

everyone’s thoughts of lotus

dragonflies dip, weave

a single cut flower

warmed with its own breath hangs free,

ghost feet within reach.

Shy smiles redden

blushing on the edges of

a flowering pith.

Hair brushes my skin.

Warmth of her lit eyes open

a moths wings flutter,

meringue on my tongue,

cool sun is lemon yellow

today was the day

condensation forms.

Skin of a fresh red apple

I’m just not the one,

close but don't close doors,

could not have been much more vague.

A figure traced in rain,

wind with windmills chime.

Grass and barley both agree,

drama queen the sky.

When storm clouds appear,

the leading edge of lightning

petrichor, a horse.

What rushes in time

unconditionally falls,

yellow maple leaves.

With a little seiche in it,

a body of water, a sandy floor

between two rocks

catching the oceans empty ash.

In this space a salty breeze

rubs my face, stars disenchant—

my eyes open to mornings street din.

I have seen that moon before,

a sliver in the dark morning sky—

a tinge of amber misty cloud cover,

this time the horizon is not yours,

this time silence did its work, for

the lotus of happiness is short lived,

acceptable behavior roots in the ash,

raising a surface into a shape of beginnings,

a fetus—sometimes I feel foolish

I did not have enough time to think about it

—missing the conversation, I tried to write

words into body—I tried to write love poems,

I really did but they are not that interesting,

love does not work that way—for I love

to hate; I love to eat, I love to walk on the beach

—the body always wants to strike back.