At dawn

At dawn or just before. Exactly when it touches the wings.
The first ray is the right place to dive and breathe. Bodily. From scratch.
My physical awakenings rise too late or too early or too lost in the mist.

open nightly bodies

had I believed... I could have demanded a whole moonlight of rebirth...
had I wished not the great flow of milk and honey... I could have enjoyed the pleasures of the desert... intensely...immensely...
as most prophets I have failed to ascend to the comedy of colorful catastrophes at the heart of the city. Instead I bumped into that gust in the edge of never-more.

Look, there are many empty benches like this one. This - I have just left. abandoned thus. over a certain becoming of light into shades of snow.
For, whenever the slope comes from Summer to Summer, it snows shades of emptiness on skin somewhere...of mine. emptying thus. exhaustingly till those bones of the chest appear in the main text of my studies or currents.
If you wish not the changes, nor their meaning, nor their alphabet, you should have planted other trees... In the meantime I wait for the great mountains. They might arrive from behind my eyes. If not. I smile at the wine and quietly drink enough pages of midnight cellos or trains...Otherwise those unknown horses of ice and flesh come at dawn and make their gods implode...into female rocks of invisible fire...