Author: G H

the end is complete, blue jays return to greyscale, the moon turns away, waves bow down, snow opens the doors, whisky shuts up, dogs point to the cliff, and the heart that stopped, speaks finally

light is easy, it’s the tattoo of steps behind still thudding that should be the edge we sleep on, squatting for tomorrow

one finger for all lifting up litter passed down from generations of hoarders and garnishers, sharpen that gesture to poke a hole in filmy past tense, one root was not enough and here we tilt

silt, sand, dust, grit I say falling up to the bead of the eye I first opened decades ago screaming about the new air blowing up these lungs suddenly I see now

add a sun to the menu to scald the stomachs constricting bite-sized neighborhoods, wash the details down with a fined merlot tuned for a blinding toilet

melting upwards for the sake of a Newton, so sweet the earth’s filling, masticated exclusively for our plate, staring back like a penny on a dull lid

where are the minds windmilling from the shoulder of the road, upkeep of appearances costs my dear, they who see constantly inflate outside the economy until popping and we gather their litter

for the tree on fire still provides heat, perhaps a spark of joy to pit shirt sleeves tangled in the water line slithering across the car’s hood shining

the number of time seems incorrect against treated wood and galvanized screws framing a hook of shoulders entering bobs of data before an inflating backdrop

with rivers stopping, diving underground before being pronounced at the mouth, there is a see to be crossed, last call across the banks, account withdrawn