the pregnancy of our gravity
in the eaves cooing the Sun
past Lupercalia
a root suckle curl
is heard in the trills
of the morning doves
afternoon leaning late
February,as Spring seems
earlier than usual
I am hanging roses
like chances taken
twisting bread-ties
to string stems across
the kitchen doorway
could be I am
re-balancing
my part of the dared
shared bunting
that is our atmosphere
with my words
and their wombed madnesses
combustible joys
and not carbon bigfoots
that herd into an opinion
write this way poet
or else you're no good
and so on and so on
so whether I am
one way looking
crossing the road
running blind
or simply waiting
on the rain
I am my own mob
my own fast
orbiting mood
so if choice
blooms fate
my way again
my crawled passions
will still be vines
will still divine-curl
and demand
my ten finger prayers
to be palms down
knees dug
my face in the cradle
flying the carpet wear
from home to home
from a crescent wane
that's barely noticeable
to the gnarled want
of life's spined reach
that weaves into
an old Oak tree's
grasp of the stars
pin-sharp stabs
of life at night
slow warm bleeds
tiny sighs breathing
from inside
the cupped love
of our souls
offering gate initiation
through each exhale
the silent frequency
of our far away
mathematical deaths
can be hidden in
the shadow-seed stretch
of our darks
can be painted
on every canvas
turn of our wheels
that the tides
collect in the dejavu
of cosmic dust
falling breath-rhythms
finger-formed smells
we hold round
each wet clay awe
we pause in
we crane-neck
our eyes to roam
with wonder
the night sky
because
we want
everything
to know
the desire
of our humanity
the electricity
of our journey
is not in
the constant game
of musical chairs
pulled rugs
and spun peddled clocks
that tuck fold wings
but rather
we crackle-fork divinity
in the lightning strikes
of our quiet storms
on the roads
we instinctively
hold sacred
as we hope-chest
each dream
like a poem
or rose petal
we might save
to remember
why we sing
birth after birth
outside our
bone-cages
EJR (c)
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