found again
fallen lips
dripping near

like rainfall
humming soft
under moonlight

moonlit blue
one body
looking out

to nothing
seeing what
false motion

returns from
those lips
and dances

all alone
to a love

Broken Soil

The ground is not as whole as it once was before. The earth is irreparable now, its motion not lent toward stability but cascade. Its silence is kinetic, roaming like a dream given to lusting eyes, and retreating back into that carelessness when the soil begins to break. I am broken soil. They cannot see it, enraptured to those parting schemes: momentum they cannot begin to stop. They are blameless, but god how it feels to drift, waning in that effort to be known. It all breaks so easy. For me, love is just a place to be overlooked.


The old world and its endless sand
reaching forever like a broken star.
That is what we must hold–
against the night in its divisions
marching on toward the beaches
of homeward dreams.

And to think, how a spitfire must look
against those breaking waves, and
what songs the propellers
may of sung to that silence
when the whirring stopped
and one song fell to three.

It is the song of lost fellows
that now roams that lonely sky.
It plays and plays, brooding
from the voiceless eyes
of unmatched shoes.

Yet still rings that call of hope:
we must go on,
white flag surrendered
only when there are none
left to see it buried.

Hope is a civilian horizon:
the promise of boredom, of love,
and the chance to embrace, as strangers,
the mutual uncertainty of this new world,
and maybe, more simply, find happiness
over dinner and a movie.

These are new eyes and new songs,
and though that ocean still swells
with the names of those voices lost,
they are reclaimed in victory,
despite its cost.