we aim to keep secrets that
never should have begun to find truth.
something about naming angels and
the way the heat drips, anxious
opressive afternoons.
the light is gorgeous in the mornings;
sand storm sueños
become the day-matter; families that
have been together
long before you
were even
born.

think about that.

there is intrigue everywhere_
crawling up the sides of my
eyes, dusting my hands, dancing in
my ears,
forming puddles on this
playa-baked
sunlight dust. time
became a creature of habit,
showing us how to move,
where to lean and
what it means to lay
along the
brevity of a
star clustered horizon.

it was as much about letting go as
obtaining,
watching the way eyelashes
shift behind the solar
life of glass.
the burns on my back
(days later) are
dusted with peace while
everywakingsecond
slips by
under heavy afternoon
eyelids and the
silent rise and fall of skin and
ribs
blanketed in shade.


(sometime in the afternoon, in the middle of the desert, nevada)
- time is obselete -

speak; we
ponder these shades of
life, tones of home.
we are
grey. it's quiet behind those
shades-

like silence.

it's something like
fatigue,
something about the
gauze covering (my legs are)
a bloodstain and
i am
exhausted.

nightly, we sleep naked like
empty white envelopes that
fold, crumple, we
collapse
beneath dawn weight.
8:10 am papercut
eyelids,
i can't see,
i can't
breathe.

quietly, i sink into the pocket
of a paper casket
sealed wet with viral saliva,
a tongue saturated with
memories, it
tastes secrecy seeking
honesty, we know-

we live in silence.

these patterns of
speech, so
wearily my own.
patterned daily monotony;
waking, sleeping
(live, die)
eager repetition of
consequential
humanist
tendancies.

sound circumvents
our ears
with shallow,
sleepy breaths. as
we blink, the
day begins
to move.