in the vicissitudes of the bud/ and some flower new this is our heavy heartbreak/ hoisted on backs rending us two but if when you come back/ everything changes again our seamy underbellied lives/ will effulge in myriad ceremonial light all our light is dismembered, torn asunder "I am more lights than you think. I am not as simple as you would have me to meet your needs." heavy pages: pressed flowers between sheaths of shakespeare’s sonnets: coded spanish wind carried ships: bearing these missives wind and storm color July how to spell out whole words: transliteration in bones, silence, and salt her ear pressed to the seashell sea/ susurra la concha desde la playa de guerra/ red stains the mouth he goes home hombre con casa y sin hogar/ back when our love lifted us sobre las llanas y hasta la luna / apoteosis sin altura eye meets worlds unfold suns rise moon blooms rains wash into gutters all gutter stories are all of our stories and which is the true story? sometimes one trembling star in the sky lights our way after an eclipse of the patriarchal sun all our lives are substance: let us pretend pressing feet into earth: hold fast; don’t fall moments of: are the walls too thick too thin? verges edges precipices: held fast you made me fall into truer stories, the one thousand waves below verges edges precipices: held fast but she left she’s gone

luminaries! our baseborn incandescence in the tallest blades of grass radiating seamy crescents in halation scheming toward a future luminaries! hot rods on lightning roads darken these highways for passersby phallustines, oh ye fucking philistines, you cast down cast down these steeples upon our neon down lines and lines, lines and lines oh! like god damned anchors in our sky living in our home cutting with my knife is not a home there’s a dearth of this city street pie never enough can’t sleep; won’t wake there are trains who pass lost late at night through an open window tales of hoppers lost late at night luminaries leave specters of legs could have been holding with these arms leaves withered; riddles of fingers; time past clutching the bell rope ring her; hear us. ring her; hear us flames to put out the fire in our eyes, water down disaffected tongues these voices silenced with avowals of specious truths hymns ring clear, singing songs not our own, not our own phallustines, oh phallustines, you won’t keep our secret a neighbor’s voice wives and waves and weaving the years gone by these bygones trod by happenstood passersby silenty watched the erstwhile fade the future paid buried stories under promises transformation swarms to the light (didn’t buy; didn’t build; didn’t ask for) leave wings behind madrugada madrugada our house is not our home (flames for fire for eyes for eyes our eyes a mellowed disaffected tongue voices renouncing disemboweled untruths hymns no longer sung singing no bells queer sibling family, will you keep this house and grow this garden? can you keep this our secret? can you keep this our secret?) our house is not ours

(summers’ end sends you off) (skies to cities and Incalculable lengths) (your legs her car traversing over) Ensouled bodies in shadowpink ground under fresh woven coal (how can you reason a song out of singing?) Rowing work we’re sung to (the stars jar east these lives extend west holy roots wont to absent north) sinew fires pulling dark tone oars (how does something new get brought into this world?) Sharing skin of knelten ash (mistook for newborn verse in reality a reverse or converse traverse a universe) birdgrey palms for embers to break in to knots of air (will the greater labor indicate the greater love?) (leaving us now, but safe as houses, safe as a human who is loved) one bone flinting clean through another

with a sense of having lost some infinite thing (we plead in small voices) she tells the infinite hegelian jest (holding onto the other) she says the owl of minerva will fly only at dusk (we want to tell everything, but the page fills) and so to cut down the owl’s three trees: the day must come with its axes (with the sounds of our language in twilight) she'll try again/(but this isn't theory) and learn to let leave/(it's visceral) this time, better/(so stop theorizing) failing better/(the self to death.) she'll sing an ode/(i'll sing my own ode) to beckett/(to beckett) there are all kinds of freedoms/(that freedom you want i do not have) there are all kinds of freedoms/(your mind my body) she said, "the hardest five days or not"/(“don't be a fool,” he said, “a transgander won't bear a gayzling”) you have something you must do/(then there's nothing to do but it) ("good morning," he sang,"i hear you. i see you")/she came she saw she heard im (not) sorry i kissed him/(i (don’t) miss you i miss you) looms weave and ominous; atavism, unbound, forbodes trituration of woven wings; wings we ungiven, gave but you gone and swept our wing-dust under the eyelid of the sky grounded your feet now, like rose roots grow through your toes our onward march/(there's a song about a heart) proceeds in balks and round-about-faces/(it's a song like so many things that happen) not in a confident eureka stride/(i want to walk away resolutely and fast) but when i look up each morning/(and i won't hear your song) the roof of my world opens/(communicatory bloodlines run too thick) and through losing/(and we cannot seem to get through) i am finding what i didn't lose/(there was a song about your heart) and despite the machinations of a man/(about how the blood could not get past) possibility is still my permanent address /(our freedom involves) possibility is still our permanent address /(paying the most perfect attention) ("good morning," he sang,"you hear me. you see me.")/she came she saw she heard she let go she let go (a world opens it opens) my bedlam like cinnamon drank dreams in dissolution throes in the grip of my hum there be whorling sounds on your first page in flying whorls: a golden owl, a fly-by-your-hands owl we fall behind like we had no whim trapped inside our wings though we are given to a liminal space we must not operate from scarcity, taking all we are rich; (and) we are possible and we must, out of this abundance, give all; give all