journey

leave it or burn it up.
many ropes tie doomed things. this book to come. smells like living non-living petals. I used to read it. and letters could talk and flower like children. playing with sorrows as if toys. none is saved from walking together through many layers of dust and flood. beyond and back home. dust years, flood years, layers of skin, that's us. bitterness, sweetness, confused streams of it, that's us. the smell deepens the mattresses and conforts. the pace of confusion increases and drops. abruptly. almost cruel and raw like those unwashed wounds and scars. driving us till the innermost chamber of us. fibers of some day. the innermost fibers on the other side of some day. here's the past crying for horses. children under a strange silence pulling them. forceps of silence. the flesh fights over everything, loves that urge. never told. too far apart. green eyes should flower throwing fire. the whole field is soft skin under night hawks writing on the walls. they know when a house is emptying. when dark green shades hesitate between air and humus.