HOME | DD

Description
I.

To unwind through, to watch
cities burn and feel nothing.

To steal a thing or two from the hands of death,
a little quip, a note, all the rest:
a bit of advice from the book that always fades,
my Agrippa, little bits of
haze. Sun-washed skin and smile, or all the ways you
used to while. I know I could have killed you right then and there. Killed you or
fucked you, or cried to you maybe. One of the above, or maybe
none.

Potentially all: a metaphor,
like burning your father's photograph or
tossing an old love letter in the trash
("I'd forgot about that.")

You will never, ever have me. And that's half the fun,
part of the
beauty. It's a game of seduction, you see, I against
me. The only thing I could never have. The only thing I'd
never let you have. In any given system, there are bound to be
certain inequalities. (Are our gazes ever level? And why is it that,
when I lay languid across the floor, you say that I feel far away?)
In any set, inconsistencies ("I was at a party," you say "nothing happened").

Yea, I would like to find
some places to be I and you,
Thee and thou, or any given re-
configuration of ourselves. A hollow little room filled with
old books and Russian guns, a few posters on the wall,
an old love letter in the trash. I. You.

But potentially some how far away
from truth. A little lie that never lands. Subtle movements of
dry grass. Little pathways of
your palm.

II.
Attempting to discover
why your smile stands like a crooked line
strained across a plane of sand, or how
at night, sometimes you shift
into new geometries or
mumble incoherently
into my
arm.

1000 tessellations of
your spine and mine.

1000 questions
unanswered by any book.

III.
Some sex,
a nice dinner;
Jazz on the radio.

Dry grass,
movement falls,
like blank as grass or
empty as Rome.

Eyes open,
movement falls,
like blank as eyes or
empty as home.

Or a new home: found
here. Maybe. I don't know.

I would like to
be these fields,
the bank on the river,

IV.
I unfurl
across you. A piece of parchment that
continues to unfold. A lean across a
pair of arms. An easy breath
falters you.

Description
I.

To unwind through, to watch
cities burn and feel nothing.

To steal a thing or two from the hands of death,
a little quip, a note, all the rest:
a bit of advice from the book that always fades,
my Agrippa, little bits of
haze. Sun-washed skin and smile, or all the ways you
used to while. I know I could have killed you right then and there. Killed you or
fucked you, or cried to you maybe. One of the above, or maybe
none.

Potentially all: a metaphor,
like burning your father's photograph or
tossing an old love letter in the trash
("I'd forgot about that.")

You will never, ever have me. And that's half the fun,
part of the
beauty. It's a game of seduction, you see, I against
me. The only thing I could never have. The only thing I'd
never let you have. In any given system, there are bound to be
certain inequalities. (Are our gazes ever level? And why is it that,
when I lay languid across the floor, you say that I feel far away?)
In any set, inconsistencies ("I was at a party," you say "nothing happened").

Yea, I would like to find
some places to be I and you,
Thee and thou, or any given re-
configuration of ourselves. A hollow little room filled with
old books and Russian guns, a few posters on the wall,
an old love letter in the trash. I. You.

But potentially some how far away
from truth. A little lie that never lands. Subtle movements of
dry grass. Little pathways of
your palm.

II.
Attempting to discover
why your smile stands like a crooked line
strained across a plane of sand, or how
at night, sometimes you shift
into new geometries or
mumble incoherently
into my
arm.

1000 tessellations of
your spine and mine.

1000 questions
unanswered by any book.

III.
Some sex,
a nice dinner;
Jazz on the radio.

Dry grass,
movement falls,
like blank as grass or
empty as Rome.

Eyes open,
movement falls,
like blank as eyes or
empty as home.

Or a new home: found
here. Maybe. I don't know.

I would like to
be these fields,
the bank on the river,

IV.
I unfurl
across you. A piece of parchment that
continues to unfold. A lean across a
pair of arms. An easy breath
falters you.