5
Since momentum was tried,
art is tried.
22 June, 2024
4
The day we met, an orchid
sprouted for the first time,
saw for the first time,
two ideas of one another:
petals quiet in the night.
An entanglement of colour, spread
petals from darkness,
drew mornings halfway. Until
there were no more enclosed
shadows, as ideas of one another.
Now memories in full daylight.
Too many days have passed
since then to judge its growth.
You see more suns than me, but most
are city lights, so I find mine natural.
But considering once, you shone twice,
I see and still these thoughts:
the day we meet, the petals
will wilt and fall, to the weight of reality.
That’s if this strange day reveals
this orchid to be seen.
Or if the day is late, maybe
ideas of us will have already been
set away.
Began writing 10 May, 2024
3
This maze loses most,
and finds the few.
The walls usher the mind,
these paths trail the thoughts.
It leaves a hostage.
Only here, laid out
to them, the entrance looks just
like the exit.
Began writing 28 March, 2024
2
The nightjar will float tonight.
Watch his wings give out — the fall of the day.
Endowed, the foragers below
will remove him,
from the boundary.
Reach, and the sky’s reflection
will pick apart at dusk —
over him, a disarming tear —
so strong it persuades all
to wipe the air dry
of the disturbances in the atmosphere.
Imagine finally, we’ll someday hear
the chase in his call
flying off the sawtooth wave.
He should have deadened now,
my friend — there is nothing left to oscillate.
Began writing 27 May, 2024
1
I met a dormancy, inside a sea
it called out, by a shore thirsty
for four nights, when it was deserted,
it wanted me, it attracted me
so I’d stop at the shore—
The first night, I ran out seduced,
the first call, a surprise, from the sea
at the shore, I only had nightclothes
when I dipped into the deep, it willed.
A current twirled me as it went by.
It’d take my weight, it’d make me fly—
The second night, I slid in, wore trunks,
the second call, a bond.
In a newfound flush, my skin, a trust
I could dive deep, we could feel. Together
my feet would kick off the sand—
The third night, I wore only myself,
came before the call.
I dove in, tore the surface,
swam down — the sea felt raw.
I marked my palms in the sand then
any trace I made would wash away—
The fourth night, the tide was gone.
The fourth call, its deafening confession:
the night calls.
I looked into the dusk, and thought
I mistook the sky for the sea,
but it was the truth, at last.
A tsunami hurtling towards me—
Began writing 29 March, 2024
