I just can't seem to get full.

What spirited heart drives me thus?

Frenzied madness... I must refrain!

Three passions have governed my life:

The longings for love, the search for knowledge,

And unbearable pity for the suffering of humankind.

Love brings ecstasy and relieves loneliness.

In the union of love I have seen

In a mystic miniature the prefiguring vision

Of the heavens that saints and poets have imagined.

With equal passion I have sought knowledge.

I have wished to understand the hearts of people.

I have wished to know why the stars shine.

Love and knowledge led upwards to the heavens,

But always pity brought me back to earth;

Cries of pain reverberated in my heart

Of children in famine, of victims tortured

And of old people left helpless.

I long to alleviate the evil, but I cannot,

And I too suffer.

This has been my life; I found it worth living.

rolling thunder.

I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.

Early in Malmö |ˈmälˌmoŏ; -ˌmœ|

Early,

Bathed in her pallor,

She sees morning twilight illume and blue the malm of the walls.

Her eyes are the shade of chronic fading.

Behind claret lips,

A spectrum is being bred

In her

Mouth.

She swims in

Sunken basins, greeting the fallen water,

Made of light and fluid and one thousand unspeakable shades.

Once, she was never the same.

She lit upon a sovereign wood

Where boney, brittle trees flow taller

Seamlessly entering the earthy bottom

And folding into the nothingness of the skies.

She opens her mouth to let her own

Breathy holiness

Coalesce with the drums in the air and her insides.

Every nerve riveted,

Feels clung to her skin,

She bared her open chest

And her slight frame shuddered

As she pulled all the world in close.

Em-

Bodied now was

Herself

Next to herself.

All four fading eyes closed,

They felt for faces.

Their fingertips found

The softest part of a cheek;

Gently chapped rogue lips;

Leafy, sun-bleached lashes;

Identical clavicle bones dressing the base

Of each neck- the left sides

Vaguely curved;

Sympathetic heartbeats under small breasts;

Finally, hands found hands,

A little cold.

Vines entwined,

She and her other walked,

Boldly, deeper into the tree-lined abyss.

In a copse

They will imagine

Until the day they melt

Out of their tissue

Into the smell of decomposing leaves.

Une Histoire d'Amour Suédoise.

.

A Memoir For Your Records

Once, I forgot my freedom. I traded dreams for a detailed diagram. I lost my loves to a reality that could have been questioned, compromised, peeled away and recreated- had I not been too afraid.

actinic light, and then the self

To Wake on the Other Side of Sleep

and we will never cease.

pulling on the sultry night silence of the walls,

our beddreams ensorcel

and we'll confide our souls,

liplessly praying

that someone might stumble upon our secrets.

we won't give way.

the sticky insides of the heart

palpate like children's arms

flailing in humid overgrown fields.

airy wings of gold,

softer and freer than an eyelash in light,

existing with remarkable, intangible thickness.

and we wait.

the three moonless nighttimes held

the density of the earth's core.

only it was cold. cold matter.

a cold core.

centers should be ends, endless, end-

lessly beginning, endings, ending.

less than measurable,

more than zephyr.

but during those times, evenings were an atmosphere so solid that it went beyond solid, into the realm of surreality where time is a place. in our waiting, we almost crossed with it, longing to return to the future that we had neatly planned. the prints were drafted when we were old, with disregard for our opening and closing flesh.

thoughts flicker

while we sleep

we share a dream

exhilarated by fear and

motion.

our dreams can't wait for reality.

you wrote this with me. you wrote me. wrote me down. as I wrote you. we are stories living in living sleep, and its as real as ever. there, looking into the sun, effusive rays of colors that I don’t understand flooded the water, my heart, and consequently my whole self .

I looked into my own eyes as they turned the color of the sun.

lens flares surround my pupils now,

and my world is engrossed in that cinematic bliss.

we said it.

or I did.

or-

just or.

abstractions and utopias don't infiltrate my dreams.

I know I will feel tender to the touch

and awake enough to cry.