mirrors, masks, reflections

i am possessed by the strongest desire to undress you.
in more than the literal sense of fiddling with buttons and buckles,
but in the peeling away the fabric of the self and holding it
in more than my hands to feel it's weight and texture.
i want to ask with what or whom are you in love,
what is it that makes your heart beat faster?
pin me to the door and show me.
at the end of each day reveal to me the changes,
however small and seemingly insignificant.
by summer i will braid you into my hair,
wear your profile, as i see it,
carved in the cameo on my breast.
all you have to do is keep growing.
all you have to do is crack my ribs and you're home.

whilst unsleeping i keep dreaming of the cold places where the inbetween light is soft as velvet and the air so clear that everything is a mosiac of crystal sound, where words knitted together make raconteurs of us all around fires built with bracken collected with our two good hands, where we unpick the stitches of our days to re-sew into geographies that fit our hearts.

with a match between it's teeth the wind at the window rattles me awake, clears the sky of lingering clouds that tell stories with shapes and break the sun...what else can i do but drink the bright that fills my room?

to silent voices singing from an older time we dance

I.
i wonder who, through it's cage of ribs
and self made walls, sees your heart
completely naked? and not just the muscle
they preserve to display in glass jars,
but the heart that's bigger than it's edges
and is filled with light and dark and life.
life which is the evolution
of slowly giving birth to ourselves.

II.
balanced in my dissymmetry i savour
the soft kiss of skin grazing skin.
the holiness of particular moments.

in the museum we manoeuvre
around their bones forcing timelines to merge,
forcing everything to connect
...even though it always did. more
than simply spectres in peripheral vision.

III.
shoots break through paper thin skin
in what i hope is a kind of eternal spring.
a tangle of flowering branches
from which little deities hang; those things
with which we furnish our days and lives,
that facilitate flight, that i pray to
and am thankful for; that prevent the shadows
from being big enough to block my sun,
that keep me breathing and breathing
through bergamot filled lungs.

the dream in which she fed him her heart

in the dream a child died.

a teacher spoke the language of hearts, though earlier she was the tower on the hill that, when in the sun, resembled a lighthouse. she, even now, shone..life..through more than dry and crumbling words to teach the fog-lost father about light and hope, but mostly about birds that sing the song of the prayer of the canticle; that carve the winds, that sing no matter what.

that such massive movement should appear silent to our ears

the night offers itself like a bouquet of black
exhaling mysteries
into our room that used to be white.

dreams bring epiphanies
of humans as the ouroboros;
lives consuming days;
days consuming life.

i wonder why we cant hear the sound
of our world
spinning circles around the sun;
the courtship dance of giants.

i think of the castle shining across the bay
whilst we shivered beneath january stars.

you with the eyes of topaz, and me
reciting the names of every bone
in the human body
and the things that makes them shake.